FicWad

Frank jolts awake sweat-soaked and shivering, a feeling much too familiar to him. Whole head pounding, stomach uncomfortably and painfully churning, palms wet in an extremely unsexy way – here we fucking go again/, he thinks. As he lies there, trying to collect himself and form a coherent thought, he can only think back to the thousand times he has experienced this or something hauntingly similar – the feeling of his ridiculously weak immune system giving up /again and submitting his body to whatever illness found him that time. Anything from a common cold or flu to a serious case of pneumonia, Frank probably had it at some point of his barely-23-year-long existence. Just when he accepts the fact of getting sick once more, and being unable to function for a couple of weeks, tiny snippets come back to him from the night before. Stale cigarette smoke, the chattering of friends – Ray, maybe? – later suppressed by a deafeningly loud, shitty punk band, the taste of beer and then something stronger, jumping in the crowd, shoving off someone who’s trying to grope him, more beer – Ah.

Ah. Just a hangover.

Although this realization does nothing to relieve his nausea, Frank is unspeakably grateful for such a mundane reason to feel so shitty, and lets himself stare at the ceiling for a few more minutes. Everything comes back slowly – he is back in good ol’ ‘Murica after a summer of backpacking in Europe with his girlfriend, Jamia. It was just the thing they needed after graduation, and Frank truly loved every single minute, the crappy motel beds and the weird accents of the locals, the Italian sun and the English clouds, but sickness once again vanquished him and they had to return from the three-month trip a week earlier than planned. He did not want to go back to his parents’ house, though, so he crashed at his best friend, Mikey’s place after returning (who, despite hating New York with every inch of his being, rented a cheap flat in the city, and simply refuses to tell Frank why he has done such thing every time he asks).

No matter how he loved Jamia with all his heart, they needed some time apart after a whole summer together, and for the first time in his life he wanted to recover from that food poisoning without either his mom or girlfriend – the two women he loved the most in the world – pampering him. He and Jamia were high school sweethearts, and despite everyone telling them they would eventually break up when they got together as naïve seventeen-year-olds, their relationship was stronger than ever even after six years. As a little, angsty punk teen he always thought he will inevitably die alone, and albeit not being ready yet to settle down (he does not even have a job, let alone a career, for fuck’s sake) and do the whole two point five kids and white picket fence, over the last few years he became more and more sure that Jamia is the one he wants to grow old with. She was the one who inspired him to pay attention in school, who convinced him that constantly partying and smoking weed with so-called friends was not the way to go, and had it not been for her, he would have never followed his dreams to become a writer.

And here he is, a young, ambitious, perfectly cliché guy in the City, trying to get his big break as a writer - preferably at The New Yorker/, and yes, he knows that is even more of a cliché, and no, he does not care. Besides Jamia, the magazine has always been his biggest inspiration since the day he picked up his first-ever copy and started reading it, and whenever he reached the point when he just had fucking enough of everyone’s shit and just wanted to give up, he would grab his newest copy and read, read, read, and imagine what it would be like – Frank Iero, editor at /The New Yorker magazine! – and it was always enough to get him through all the nights spent bent over textbooks instead of sleeping or give him strength not to skip that lecture again. And those rare times when the fantasy of a flourishing career was not sufficient, Jamia held him and told him all sorts of wonderful things while he hid his face in the crook of her neck, and the next morning he would always wake up fresh and ambitious. He could only hope that one day he will be able to show her just how amazing and important she is.

But right now, Frank Iero is a just a punk-ass, broke, unemployed dreamer with too many tattoos. And the worst hangover of his life, damn it. He groans and manages to turn his head in the general direction of the floor, and after a few seconds spent trying to convince his eyes to just fucking work and focus properly, he spots his beat-up phone on the floor next to him and picks it up. The screen lights up, blinding him, and he quickly locks his phone again after checking the time. /06:08/. What the actual fuck. Why on earth he would wake up at ass-o’clock in the morning, especially if he got so wasted last night?

The answer is given to him as his phone suddenly comes alive and rings deafeningly loud (for probably not the first time that morning, but Frank just cannot be bothered to check his missed calls right now). He quickly mutes it and looks at the screen, confused. The number is hidden, and he can barely fight the urge to just throw his phone out of the window, but instead he groans and picks it up.

"Yeah?" he mumbles, and the pounding in his head immediately worsens.

"Hello, am I speaking with Mr. Frank Iero?" answers a surprisingly enthusiastic female voice, and honestly, if Frank still had any doubts about throwing up, now he is pretty sure that sugary tone will do the rest of the work his hangover could not.

"Yes, who’s that?" /And why exactly do you have to call at six a.m., fucker/, but he does not add that afterthought.

"I am Sharon from human resources at Elias-Clark. I believe you left you résumé here about a few days ago?"

Frank suddenly does not feel so sleepy or nauseous anymore.

 

After not doing anything – like, literally, anything – for a whole week but laying around on Mikey’s couch all day, his best friend’s patience had finally ended, which resulted in Frank being kicked out from the apartment (/‘just fucking leave for one fucking hour, dude, your face annoys the shit outta me’/). So he grabbed his ancient laptop and earphones and occupied a corner in the nearest café he could find, and sat there a few hours going over and rewriting his old résumé. He spent the following days dropping of copies of it at all the big magazine publishers, with a cover letter saying he wanted to gain some magazine writing experience. Honestly, the last thing he expected was an interview, but at least he had the illusion of doing something useful. After the phone call, however, it turned out that Elias-Clark wanted to have a little ‘chat’ – whatever that meant.

The thing he does not really understand was why on earth this woman was calling him at such an unreasonable hour, and why do they want to ‘chat’ on that very day. But hey, he got an actual interview and he might score a job – even if it is just fetching coffee and getting phone calls, at least he can get some experience and maybe enough money to rent an apartment somewhere and move out of Mikey’s tiny Harlem flat.

He has the appointment at eleven a.m., so he allows himself to sleep two more hours after he gets off the phone. Then he takes some Advil and washes it down with a mere four shots of espresso. He manages to get off yesterday’s general dirt and grease under the shower, then quickly dries his hair, and throws on a clean shirt with jeans and his least worn out pair of Converse. He gradually feels his hangover going away, and by the time he is dressed, it is practically gone. Mikey chooses to come out of his bedroom just as he is checking himself out in the mirror, his always-immaculate blond hair now sticking up in all directions.

"Hey –", he squints at Frank, confused. "What the fuck, man, it’s like, dawn – what the hell are you doing?"

"Job interview", Frank cannot help the glint of pride in his voice. "And no, it’s almost ten, Sleeping Beauty", he adds with a cheery smile.

"Uh, get the hell away from me, Iero", he grunts, hung-over and still too sleepy to comprehend what he just heard.

"Love you too, Mikes, wish me luck", he grabs his keys and Metro Card and heads out the door before he can hear the blond one’s response.

 

He gets lost only twice before he arrives at the elegant Elias-Clark building, which is a massive achievement since he moved to the city just a few weeks ago, thank you very much. After checking the time – 10:44, perfect – he takes a deep breath and goes inside.

And no, Frank was not nervous, not until this point. Now, though, he has to realize how truly fucked he is.

If the building looked elegant from the outside, well, he does not really have the appropriate vocabulary for the inside. The hall is open and massive, tasteful warm browns and black marbles mixing with the light golden decoration. The people are rushing past him like they are still outside on the street, on their phones – ‘I’m afraid the meeting will have to be postponed, since Mr Rush-‘/, chattering with colleagues – /‘Can you believe that bitch actually said that to /me/?’ – and generally looking Very Serious. Oh god, the people –

Clack, clack, clack/. A colorful sea of skinny, Twiggy-like girls in the newest designer clothes, not a single one of them above size zero or under 5’8”, plus an added at-least-4-inch-high pair of stilettos. How can these stupid high heels make this awful noise? /Clackers/. Not exactly masculine (or heterosexual-looking, for that case) men in skin-tight jeans, V-necks and polished shoes, and dear, dear god, eyeliners… Very Serious middle-aged businessmen in suits, and fuck, even the guards are better dressed than him, and Frank wants to disappear, because every corner shouts /Prada! Chanel! Eating disorders! at him, and if there is one place he definitely does not belong to, it is this one.

He spots the reception and practically runs for it, before his panic really sets in.

The guy sitting behind the desk shoots him an amused look, but does not make any comments as he passes him a guest sticker and lets him in. He quickly hops inside an elevator, two Gisele Bündchen-wannabe looking girls following him, their glossy lips never stopping, stupid, meaningless crap tumbling out of their mouths.

"I mean, you know how he is, and the September issue was just being put together and she managed to –" Clacker One says, seemingly entertained by her own story.

The other girl starts sniggering, and Frank feels his brain cells slowly die inside his head.

"No, no, stop, I don’t believe you! Like, like, everyone, like, knows what a massive…" Clacker Two replies, hands flailing around, like this is the best thing she has ever heard.

"Yeeeaah, totally, like, she’s such a damn. Stupid. /Bitch/. Oh god…"

Frank coughs, irritated, and he immediately regrets it after they both look at him like he is infected with the plague, but at least Ebola. It takes a few seconds for Clacker Two to tear her eyes from his Chucks and recover from the oh-so-disgusting sight, but ah, when she does…

"But like, y’know, this is totally unbelievable, even for someone like-"

Frank stares at the little monitor in the elevator and sighs. 10:53. Six more floors to go.

 

Sharon turns out to be not that sickeningly sweet in real life as her voice on phone would have suggested, but still, she is ridiculously cheerful. She smiles from behind her desk as she shakes Frank’s hand, and gestures him to have a seat. Behind her, there are framed covers from all the Elias-Clark magazines, and Frank is suddenly nervous. Does he get to have a choice? He studies the pictures. Cooking magazine, news magazine, and that one is fitness or woman’s maybe… He stops and stares at the fashion one for a long second. Please, /please not that one/. He tears his eyes away and shoots a smile to Sharon, which was meant to be charming but probably looked really creepy.

"Thank you, Sharon, for going through my résumé and calling me, really, it’s a –"

"Do you like cars?" she interrupts as if she does not have the time for such unnecessary small talk.

Frank is so taken aback he forgets to lie and he blurts out a ‘no’ before he realizes his mistake.

"I mean, um, yes! I totally love cars, and… uh, race cars especially. Yeah, I-I… always used to watch Formula-1 with my dad back at home… Y’know, father-son bonding time, huh…" A look at Sharon’s skeptical expression and he reconsiders. "Uh, okay, I’m not that much into cars, but I know a few…" He sighs, giving up. "Okay. No. I don’t know a thing about cars and I’m not particularly interested, to be honest. But I know that in case - " and once again, he is interrupted by her firm, I-don’t-have-time-for-your-bullshit voice.

"Okay, honey, fashion it is then!" she announces with a toothpaste-ad worthy smile.

/What the actual fuck/.

"Um… Fashion?" he squints at her, waiting for the punchline.

"We have two open positions, one at Auto Universe and one at /Runway/. And since you just said that you are not interested in cars, I presume the latter would be more fitting."

Frank just looks at her, directs his gaze at his shoes, then back at Sharon.

"Yeah. Totally. Couldn’t think of a more fitting position. So fitting." He tries to sound as bitchy as possible. Very fitting indeed.

The smile suddenly disappears from her face, and Frank would swear her eyes just got a shade darker.

"Either Runway or /Auto Universe/. That’s what we have, honey." Frank has never been more terrified his entire life.

"Um, maybe… if I come back next week there might be more openings?" He knows he should not push his luck, but please, no cars and no fashion, anything but these two.

"I’m quite certain there won’t be /any/-thing next week." /Oh, I bet you’re certain, bitch/.

He seriously does not have a clue what possesses him when he mutters 'Runway' a split second later, immediately regretting it.

Sharon’s bright smile is instantly back. "Then Runway it is, honey." She looks at him, obviously entertained and maybe – gloating, even? And if Frank still has any hope that this woman is at least a bit sane, she then goes ahead and opens her mouth again. "Oh, Mr Iero, if you only knew what an ah-may-zing opportunity this is! Believe me when I say, a million girls would kill their own mothers for this job."

A bit of further discussion later, Frank practically sprints out the door, not daring to let out the breath he is holding until he is back in the elevator again.

 

"Frank Iero?"

A few minutes later and what seemed like a thousand floors below, Frank is standing in front of a skinny, blonde girl dressed up in clothes which, Frank is pretty sure, cost more than his college tuition. Her messy-but-oh-so-chic bun is framing her scowling face perfectly; her ruby red lips pressed together, a folder clutched in her manicured hands.

Frank did not know until now how can you humiliate someone so much with a mere look that they lose all their vim, but luckily for him, you can learn something new every day.

"Yes."

"Wonderful. Who put you up for this job again?"

"Uh… Human Resources?" she snorts unattractively at that, and shakes her head in disbelief.

"They do have an odd sense of humor" she sighs, then announces: "Lindsey Ballato. Follow me", and she is fucking gone, already made her way behind a thousand glass doors (what the hell is with the glass doors and walls here anyway?). Frank finds himself rushing after her, and he only realizes after about a minute that she is actually talking to him.

"...of course, it’s hard, no doubt about that. Expect an average of fourteen-hour workdays, no editorial work at all. The job you are applying for is the junior assistant, so basically, you will make sure his needs are always accommodated. This covers all the basic stuff – coffee, lunch, dry cleaning, but also accompanying him to certain social events if he sees fit. But, oh, it’s always fun and challenging, and you get to spend your days with this legend of a man. Work one year for him, and you’ll get a job anywhere in publishing – whether at Elias-Clark or somewhere else, even abroad, he can and will arrange it with a snap of his fingers."

She abruptly stops in between two wooden desks, and puts her hands on her hips dramatically. "A million girls would kill for this job, working for /him/… But it’s not like I have to introduce Gerard Rush to anyone, right?" She gets this really creepy, dreamy look on her face which makes Frank worry for her sanity.

He stares, confused. "Who?"

Her eyes go wide, jaw dropping. "Oh. My. God. I’m so going to pretend you never said that. He is the editor-in-chief of Runway/." She gives him a quick once-over, then forces a smile. "You know that /Runway is a fashion magazine, right, Frank? So, one would assume you do comprehend that interest in fashion, is, uh, crucial." Her fake smile makes Frank want to yank her stupid stiletto off and bash her skull in with the sharp heel, but he only smiles back, not sure what to say.

But he does not have to come up with an answer because her phone beeps, and she immediately drops the folders from her hand and checks her new message. As she is reading it, a look of terror Frank has never seen before appears on her pretty face – which is saying something, since he watched all the B-category horror flicks in existence.

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no" she starts chanting in a high-pitched voice, and then shoots Frank a murderous glance. "You. Sit down on that chair," she points behind one desk, "and do not move, make any noise or /eye contact/, for that matter." Then she disappears, screaming something about coffee, and Frank sits there, really hoping he is not fucking breathing too loud for this girl’s liking, because he does not have a doubt that if he does, she would kill him at the first given opportunity. Is everyone a fucking psycho at this place?

"He’s on his way, everyone! And pissed off" Lindsey announces somewhere outside, then she is back, with a short, dark haired man next to her. "He shouldn’t be here today, just in the afternoon, oh /Jesus/! The damn colorist caught the flu. God, these /people/!"

"Two minutes on top, folks! Man your battle stations!" he shouts, then stops in front of Frank. "Who is that?" he asks Lindsey in disbelief, but obviously does not expect an answer. He is wearing eyeliner and skin-tight pants, and is so flamboyantly gay he could not possibly work anywhere else but – of course – a fashion magazine. He drops some boxes on the desk in front of Frank, makes a face, and then rushes off.

The whole office went crazy in a few seconds. Everyone Frank can see is running around, carrying boxes or various pieces of clothing or paper. Others are applying makeup, fixing their hair, or organizing their desks – he can sense the panic and stress in the air.

Lindsey runs into the fancy office just past where Frank is sitting, lays out a thousand magazines and newspapers, pours a drink, positions a coffee, pens, pieces of paper in a matter of seconds. Phone beeping again, she screams "He is heeeeeeeere, people!" then grabs her folders and she is out of the office again. And Frank sees everything stilling outside the glass walls as he sits there, more confused than he has ever been.

He sits there in the abrupt silence, waiting for something, anything that would tell him what the hell is going on.

Not a minute later, he hears someone approaching the office, speaking in a quiet, steady voice, slightly muffled by the door.

"-Let’s try Donatella first. Then I want Michael, Simone, and then Gaga. I want the, ah, November cover with her, preferably…"

Lindsey pushes the glass door open for an elegant young man in a dark blue wool coat, black scarf carelessly draped over his neck and shoulder. He is not very tall, he can’t be above 6 feet, but he has a perfect posture, head held high; his hands are feminine and manicured. He wears a tight shirt with small dots on it, black pants, a white, pointed shoe and an expensive-looking handbag. But what really catches Frank’s eye is what above his neck – cheekbones so high you can cut yourself with it, sunglasses still on. And then there’s the hair.

Long, almost shoulder-length, fiery red hair, so in contrast with his ice-cold appearance and monotone voice that Frank is slightly taken aback. He is almost in front of him, his quiet talking never stops, and if anything, he looks bored – and fucking amazing.

Next to him, Lindsey seems like a teenager who dresses from American Apparel, and the man with his one-of-a-kind appearance somehow manages to tower above her despite the few inches at the expense of his own between them. She is furiously scrabbling down notes while keeping up with his pace.

"… Although it depends on the press in the next few weeks; I need you to keep track on that; anything I dislike, we will just pull out some actress from somewhere. Has she lost any weight yet, by the way? And tell Pete we need to discuss that shoot – also, tell everyone else it would be just amazing if he was not the only one who actually came here to work. Sometimes it just feels like –"

He does not bother to finish, but makes a dismissive motion with his hand that is ought to explain everything. He drops his coat and bag on Lindsey’s desk, and then continues into the office. "Also, whoever came up with that stupid fur idea, fire them. We do not need those lunatic activists again just because no one can come up with anything creative for the winter season. Tell them to keep the dead animals in the closet for a few years before it comes back. And the same goes for all the floral ideas for the spring, by the way, it’s dull. Who’s that?" he asks, same tone, and Frank is so damn nervous he is pretty sure he is about to faint.

Lindsey’s eyes dart at him like she has already forgotten Frank is still there, then back at the man. "Oh, that’s…" she hesitates for a second, then shakes her head. "HR sent him about the new assistant job. But I’ve pre-interviewed him and I can assure you, he’s absolutely wrong for it, so he was just leaving."

"Oh." He takes of his sunglasses and eyes her for a few seconds. "Considering how idiotic your last choice was, I don’t think it’s your place to tell if someone is wrong for this or not. I clearly have to decide for myself in every petty little matter, since everyone in this place is, well, an imbecile. Although, obviously, since you have such a high opinion of yourself, I don’t know how I didn’t notice, but you must be an exception, /Eliza/." Lindsey freezes as he stops for a second, making sure his words sink in. "So – send him in." He turns his back to her, grabs his coffee and takes a sip, and proceeds to sit down, every move slow, calculated and elegant. Once in his chair, he crosses his legs, sits down, and raises his eyebrows, clearly not understanding why she hasn't moved yet. "That’s all."

Lindsey forces a smile, nods, takes a few steps back to Frank and grimaces at him. "He wants to see you. Go."

Frank enters the office, his heart pounding.

 

The office is not less elegant than any other part of the building he has come across, but this is the first he has the feeling of being used a lot – not because it was run down by any means, but because the carefully chosen decoration gave an almost homey feeling to it. Flowers, the walls littered with sketches, photos of people who (Frank presumed) were important in the fashion world, mirrors, and one had a big photograph of Gerard and a young, slightly rebellious looking guy, both unsmiling, but still looking awesome.

Gerard is busy writing something, so Frank just stands there awkwardly for what seems like an hour, but cannot be more than a minute.

"And, who are you?" he finally looks at Frank, slightly less bored but his facial expression and tone still far from the social norm.

"My name is Frank Iero." He was so anxious he could feel the blood pounding in his ear, and he gives Gerard his résumé with a trembling hand, which he chooses to ignore.

"What brings you to /Runway/, Frank?"

"Well, Mr. Rush –"

"Gerard" he corrects immediately.

"Yeah, yes, sorry, uh, Gerard… Um, well, I, I always adored fashion, so um –"

"What brings you to /Runway/?" he cuts him off, clearly not having any bullshit or wanting to endure the torture of small talk.

The question is so sudden that Frank cannot help but blurt out the truth. "I interviewed with Sharon at Human Resources and it’s basically this or /Auto Universe/."

At this, the corners of Gerard’s mouth twitch, and he seems pleased. /Okay then, honesty works/, Frank thinks, feeling a tiny bit more confident.

He looks Gerard in the eye, takes a breath, and decides he is going to sell himself, hard.

"I graduated from Brown last year, with a major in English, and came to New York to be an editor. I was the editor-in-chief for the school magazine, but other than that, I have no experience whatsoever in this area, and my only job before was at a coffee shop while still studying. But I am quick to learn and I am sure I would be the perfect choice for this job, if you decide to give me a chance."

"Do you speak any languages?"

"I’m fluent in Italian."

He presses his lips together. "Italian is not bad. I was hoping for French though." He says it in a manner that Frank almost apologizes, but then gets himself together.

"I don’t speak a word of that, but I’m confident it won’t be a problem."

Again, his mouth twitches. Frank wants to make this man laugh, to feel that victory that someone so cold can break because of something he said.

"I must assume you are not particularly interested in fashion, are you, Frank?"

The hell with it. "No."

Gerard looks away from his face now, taking in everything, dissecting Frank from his cheap shoes to his wrists where a tattoo must be peeking out, but Frank is beyond caring about that. When he is back to eye contact again, it seems like Gerard knows him – he knows him, and he is mocking and humiliating him, because he is so much below Gerard that it is the most amusing thing in the world.

"But I certainly look forward to learn about other people’s interest, and I’m sure fashion is unbelievably fascinating and, uh, /thought-provoking/. This is why I’m here, after all, to gain experience." Frank declares, wanting to get some reaction from Gerard. He is not sure whether he imagines the smile that ghosts on his lips for a split second or not.

By now, Frank should know that he does not bother to answer things like these. "Have you ever heard my name before this day, Frank?" he rolls the ‘r’ in his name as if he is tasting it. Frank fights his urge to flash a shit-eating grin at him.

"No, I haven’t."

"And please, tell me, have you ever picked up a copy of /Runway/, Frank?"

He leans a bit forward before he answers, eyes glimmering with childish joy before he answers – honest, as Gerard Rush likes it.

"No."

At that moment, he knows he has the job.