FicWad

March 20th, 2005


He was the cigarette smoke you breathed in, with a little more dramatics to show; something he called character, but others, a quicker way to go. He was the ache in your head and the quick breathes you took in bed. He was the slowing of your heart, as a weak smile of yours said, "what a beautiful work of art."


You were just a part of his variety show, the main act before the lights went low. Before the air was shallow, and he was looked at as though he were a hallow, and the arrogance in the air made it hard to swallow, but something about it made you not care.


Frank Iero glanced up from his page, greasy hair in strings staring back at him; not his own, but his. The word eradication sprung to his mind, and he wondered if he could rid himself of the boy in front of him.


There was the thought of it being impossible. He was a dash of black in a far too colourful world, he felt like a dose of reality, although His existence radiated fantasy; that didn't matter, that was far too irrelevant, because Frank reckoned for once he found a dash of normality, and there was a sense of urgency for that in his head.


His writing, however, held declamatory. It was his written word against his spoken word, and Frank wasn't quite sure which one held the most truth, but he was willing to believe both. They both fueled his thoughts, gave him a chance at writing, to find the words, but the second he glanced up, they get lost again. He was losing himself and gaining nothing for it, but that was it; that was his writing.



"Staring isn't nice." Gerard Way took a drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke out into the air, a little bit of himself going with it. His hands shook as he lifted the cigarette back up to his lips, a roll of his eyes the only response his body was getting.


"You need to wash your hair." Frank looked back down to his journal, biting on his lip, urging words to start flowing again, but nothing came. He was too distracted, settling on closing the journal and placing it beside him, sighing out into the air, breathing in a little bit of smoke, missing the feeling of a cigarette in between his fingers.


"It inspires you, although I find your writing quite elliptic. I want to know what you're thinking, but those metaphors are elusive. You should let me into your head." Gerard's head lolled to the side, watching Frank's shoulders as the boy breathed.


"You're just as intricate as my metaphors. No matter how much time I take trying to find the words to describe you, I'll never find them; you run too deep in the existence of the world to be a cryptic poem in a some boy's journal." Frank's shaking hand found the pale palm of Gerard's as their fingers linked.


"But still, you write about me."


"I can't have hopes?"


"Only expectations."


"I guess dreaming isn't really your strong point." Frank flipped his hair from his eyes, glancing up at the clouds. He felt the air enter his lungs, and it was new. The season of rebirth had started, an air of renewal around the scene, but one thing felt old, one thing was tired, not exactly finished.


"You'll wait years to find those words, Frank. You don't have years."


"But you have years. You'll find those words for me."


"I'm not you, though."


"You're everything I hope - Well, expect to be." Gerard scoffed, pulling his hand away as he stood, his bones rattling in his skin. He walked away, body swaying, as Frank Iero sat on the bench, smiling to himself.


Reaching over, Frank picked up his journal; the search for those words had to start somewhere, after all.