Archive of Our Own ^beta

Frank’s not surprised when he gets to Penn Station and sees the Montclair-Boontoon line is delayed. What did he expect from the friggin’ New Jersey Transit Authority on a Monday? Reliability? Yeah, right.

He stands in front of the departures board with his equally frustrated commuters -- the only other people in the colossal station who actually want to go to New Jersey -- and he rocks band and forth impatiently, waiting for some sort of update. He loosens his tie and rolls up the sleeves of his button-down, freeing his tattoos from the confinements of business casual. He hates that he has to cover them up in the first place, but until the rockstar lifestyle proves more fruitful, it’s clerical grunt work in some dull Manhattan office for him.

Instantly, he feels more at ease as he looks down at his decorated arms. It’s always his favorite part of the day, seeing his ink again, and he doesn’t want to think about how that speaks for the pathetically dull life he’s currently leading. Fortunately, there’s no time for an existential crisis in the middle of Penn Station as he’s distracted by rapid shuffling from the crowd around him. Looking up, he sees his train has arrived. Twenty-eight minutes late, but by Transhit standards, that’s not too bad.

Picking up his slightly tattered backpack, he makes his way down to the track. He walks a little further toward the back of the train and finds a mostly empty railcar, throwing himself in the first seat he sees. As he leans back into it, something sharp pierces his back.

“Ow, fuck!” He grunts, too distracted by the pain to notice the dirty look from the middle-aged woman a few rows ahead. If he did, he definitely would’ve flipped her off.

Turning around, he discovers the sharp pain was not actually caused by the abysmal Transhit upholstery, but by something else -- a book. Curious, he opens the cover and is greeted with an astonishing world of color.

Inside are dozens of beautiful and vibrant sketches. Mostly cartoons, all drawn so well, clearly the work of a practiced and talented artist. Frank smiles for the first time all day, and it only gets bigger as he turns each page and encounters a new character. The monkey in the cute beret, the man in a fluffy pink cat costume, the cool-looking gun-slinger with bright red hair, along with countless others. They're all done in varying, unique styles, showcasing the artistic range that the owner of the sketchbook possesses.

Frank doesn’t recognize any of the characters, and yet, there’s something a little familiar about them all. Especially that gun-slinger guy, who is, well, kind of hot for a cartoon. Soft and pretty face, fluffy hair, and really striking eyes behind his bright yellow mask. Maybe it’s a video game character he’s seen in passing? Likely, seeing as most of his friends are huge nerds, always talking about some new anime or game that he’s never heard of and can’t pronounce.

But as he turns to the last page of the book, he sees a drawing of someone that he most definitely does recognize -- himself.

It’s him, sitting on the train and staring out the window, his jaw pressed against his palm, a bored and dejected look on his face. Pretty much how he always looks while riding the train, be it coming or going. It's like looking in a mirror.

Unlike the other sketches in the book, this one is not colorful. It's just shaded with pencil, with the exception of one area on his body -- his arms. They're bright and colorful, a little moreso than they appear in actuality, but drawn so precisely and accurately. Whoever drew this not only had an eye for detail, but had to have seen him multiple times to get them all correct.

Which begs the all important question -- who did draw this?

Turning back to the front cover, Frank searches for a name, but finds only a pair of initials in the lower corner: GW. Nothing else. No full name, no address, not one of those cute little “If lost, please return to…” stickers. Hardly much to go off of.

Frowning, Frank looks up and scans the railcar on the off chance that the mysterious GW might be right in plain sight. But there’s no one other than cranky middle-aged lady, and he’s willing to bet what little money he has to his name that she’s definitely not GW.

The doors to the train shut and it departs from the station, beginning the trek back to New Jersey and presumably distancing him from GW.

Frank sighs and looks down at the book, turning to the last page and gently running his hand along the drawing.

He doesn’t know when or how, but he decides that he’s going to do it. He’s going to find GW.

To say Frank becomes obsessed with both the sketchbook and returning it to GW would be a massive understatement.

He thinks about it almost constantly. He’s looked through the pages enough times that he’s got every drawing memorized. He carries the book with him wherever he goes, and he always makes sure it’s especially visible and prominent when he’s on the train.

But so far, the search has proven unsuccessful. No one’s even batted an eye at the book. Not even when Frank spent his Wednesday commute walking down the railcars and waving the book in the air. All that got him was a bunch of dirty looks, some crude insults, and a stern talking to by the conductor on why passengers had to stay seated at all times.

His friends haven’t been particularly helpful either when he confided in them, or rather, whined at them, about his plight. His buddy Ray suggested he just turn it in to Penn Station’s Lost and Found, because, “that’s where people go when they lose shit, dude.” Ray also provided a lot of disheartening statistics about how many people rode the NJ Transit every day and the unlikelihood of encountering the same person. All this really did was make Frank even more determined to find GW and prove him wrong.

But come Friday, even Frank’s feeling a little deflated. The 307,853 daily riders -- number provided by Ray Toro and Google -- now feel a little bigger and a little more impossible to find one person among them. Someone that he doesn’t even know beyond his initials and his amazing artwork.

Averting his gaze away from the Penn Station departures board that really needs to update already, he glances down at the sketchpad in his hands. He breathes out a heavy sigh.

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s Friday and he’s exhausted as hell from the work week. Or maybe it’s that the friggin’ New Jersey Transit Authority is forty-seven minutes behind schedule, but he just doesn’t feel like searching today. Reluctantly, he tucks the book away in his backpack, concealing it from the world and GW for the first time since finding it.

But it’s not over! He’ll keep looking on Monday. It’s not the end, he knows it’s not. Or, at least, that’s what he tells himself in an attempt to make himself feel better.

Too bad it doesn’t work.

On the departure board, Montclair-Boontoon's status finally flashes from ‘DELAYED’ to ‘BOARDING’. Track 14. The crowd moves in a frantic unison, and Frank shuffles along behind them, moving a little slower than usual. Feeling too lethargic to walk to the back where he usually sits, he takes a seat in the first railcar that he sees.

He shuts his eyes and leans his head against the cool glass window. He tunes out the chatter of his fellow patrons with ease -- a skill every commuter has to master -- but the sound of a yelling voice grabs his attention.

“Wait, wait, please!”

Opening his eyes, he sees a slightly disheveled, scruffy looking guy board the train just as the door shuts. Very good and very fortuitous timing on his part.

Scruffy Guy is breathing heavily as he makes his way down the aisle, scanning the busy railcar for an empty seat. The only one that’s open is the seat next to Frank. He stares at it intently and bites his lip, like he’s seriously considering standing for the entire ride instead of sitting next to Frank. Ouch.

Huffing, Frank pats, or rather, smacks the seat next to him.

Scruffy Guy jumps a little and nods, finally sitting down. “Thanks.”

Frank grunts in acknowledgment and crosses his arms. He’s already in a bad mood as it is; he doesn’t need someone thinking they’re too good to sit next to him. Kind of weird he’s getting it from a guy who looks to be his age anyway. Usually that’s reserved for the conservative old ladies.

Frank wants to shut his eyes and resume his desired goal of sleeping and feeling sorry for himself, but for some reason, he keeps looking over at Scruffy Guy.

It’s not that Scruffy Guy is doing anything particularly interesting -- just checking his phone and leveling his breathing -- but Frank can’t seem to look away. He’s not sure why he’s interested, seeing as the guy was rude to him and also smelt a little funny (sweat from the running, Frank assumes), but there’s just something about him.

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s good-looking? Soft and pretty face, fluffy hair, and really striking eyes. Yeah, he’s good-looking alright. Hell, even with the smell, the slightly too baggy clothing, and the tacky, neon green lanyard he’s wearing around his neck with the --- wait a minute!

Frank’s eyes follow the lanyard down to the employee ID card attached to it. There’s a photo of Scruffy Guy on it, looking only slightly more put together than he does now, and a logo for Cartoon Network underneath it along with a name: Gerard Way. As in...

“GW!” Frank exclaims loudly, garnering not only Gerard’s attention, but the attention of nearly everyone else in the railcar.

A middle-aged woman across shushes him harshly, and this time, Frank does stick up his middle finger, but he doesn’t look away from Gerard. “I...you’re GW!” He says, this time in a more appropriate whisper.

“...yeah? Those are my initials. I’m Gerard Way,” Gerard responds, looking alarmed and like he seriously wished he chose standing instead of sitting next to Frank. “I’m sorry, do I know you or something?”

“Yes, yes, you do!” Frank reaches underneath his seat for his backpack and grabs the sketchbook, turning to the last page and pointing furiously at it. “You drew this! You drew me! You’re GW, oh my god, you’re real!”

Gerard’s eyes go wide as he looks down at the sketch, his expression an odd mixture of excitement and shame. “Listen, I, uh, I can explain...”

“Explain what? How amazing of an artist you are? Because dude, you don’t have to! Your art speaks for itself,” Frank says, excitedly flipping through the other pages in the book.

Gerard blushes and tucks some of his hair behind his ear. “Thank you. Uh, for the compliment and for finding my sketchbook. It is mine, and I was going crazy without it. I thought for sure I’d never see it again.”

“Yeah, I’ve been looking for you all week.” Frank winces at his words. Real smooth, Iero. “Sorry, that sounded really creepy.”

Gerard shakes his head and waves a dismissive hand. “Not as creepy as me drawing a sketch of a stranger that I don’t even know.”

“Well, so you don’t have to feel creepy about drawing strangers, I’m Frank! There, no longer a stranger,” Frank says cheerfully. “I’m super flattered. No one’s ever drawn me before. They’ve drawn on me, yeah--” Frank gestures down at his tattoos. “--but never of me.”

“Your tattoos are actually what inspired me in the first place,” Gerard admits. “The way you have them with your tie on and sleeves rolled up? It’s interesting, almost like you’re freeing your artistic side from the constraints of a blue collar job and lifestyle.” He pauses and rubs at the back of his neck. “Sorry, that probably sounded a little pretentious. It’s just rare that I get to talk about art that doesn’t require at least one fart joke nowadays.”

Frank snickers. “Highbrow humor at Cartoon Network, huh?”

Gerard sighs and holds up his employee badge. “Only the finest.”

Frank laughs again and shakes his head. “Don’t worry, you didn’t sound pretentious. Well, maybe a little, but it’s pretty spot on. And kind of beautiful, too,” Frank says, and Gerard smiles at him. It's timid, a little bashful, but much like his words, it's beautiful.

Frank flips back to the sketch of himself and runs his thumb along the colorful ‘ink’. “You really got all of the details perfectly...”

“It took me a few sightings to get them perfect. So rest assured, you are not the creepy one here.” Gerard bites his lip and looks down at the ground. “But really, I am sorry for drawing you without your consent. I’ll be sure to ask next time.”

“Hey, like I said, I’m flattered. It’s a compliment to me and my tattoos. I’m glad you like them, and I’d be happy to give you a better view of them sometime,” Frank says, far more forward than intended. Too forward for sure. God, he’s really out of practice with flirting. “I mean, uh, we should hang out sometime!" He adds in quickly. "I, uh, I'd like to learn about all your cool characters.”

Gerard perks up. “You know about my characters?”

“Yeah, the ones in here! I especially like this guy.” Frank turns to a drawing of the red-headed gunslinger. He scrutinizes it for a moment before he looks back up at Gerard. “You know, he kind of looks like you. Is it a self-portrait?”

Gerard snorts. “More like wishful thinking. I’m nowhere near that cool.”

“I beg to differ,” Frank says, much smoother and much less creepy than his previous lines. And based on the warm grin Gerard’s giving him, much more effective. Maybe he’s not so bad at this after all.

But then, unfortunately, Gerard’s attention and gaze shifts away from Frank at the sound of the conductor announcing the next station: “Next stop, Watsessing Avenue!”

“Crap, I’m next.” Gerard scrambles to collect his own things, rummaging through his backpack and procuring a pen. Going back to the sketch of Frank, he turns it over and scribbles something on the back of it before ripping it out of the pad. He hands it over just as the train arrives at the station.

Gerard stands up and throws his bag over his shoulder. “I’m holding you to that better view that you promised me. And I owe you another drawing -- a non-creepy, totally consensual one, preferably of you smiling.”

Frank chuckles. “Hey, draw me anywhere other than on the Transhit, and we can make that happen easily. Especially if I get to look at the artist while he draws this time?”

Gerard’s cheeks flush a little redder and he nods. “I think that can be arranged...I’ll see you soon, Frank.” With one last smile and a slightly awkward, but very endearing wave, Gerard turns on his heel and walks off the train.

Looking out the window, Frank watches Gerard until he’s completely out of sight as the train blares off to the next station. He then turns his attention to the sketch Gerard gifted him and flips it over to read his message.

Frank grins and leans back in his seat, pressing the beloved sketch against his chest. For the first time -- and probably only time -- the friggin’ New Jersey Transit actually didn’t let him down.

307,853 riders a day, 88,578,277 riders a year, and still, he found the princess. Suck on that, Toro.