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After fifteen minutes Frank decides that this is the lamest party he has ever had the displeasure to be invited to. The drinks are horrible, he doesn't know any of these people — and doesn't want to know most of them, — and he is just bored. He should have stayed at home and played video games all night. Too bad that his status means he has to stay at least for another forty-five minutes before he gets to leave this place and go home.
He doesn't even know why exactly he was invited to an exhibition opening of all things: he doesn't understand modern art, he never had much interest in it, and all the praise he has been hearing all night sounds more like a circlejerk. Maybe he helped the owner once, that's why. He meets too many people in his line of work, he can't possibly remember them all.
He wants to slip away unnoticed when a woman whose name he doesn't remember drags him to the main hall because “the artist has arrived, Mr Iero, I simply must introduce you”, and honestly, this is becoming too much. All he wanted was free booze.
The artist — apparently this guy made all the paintings in this place — stands in the far corner, away from the crowd. Strange: Frank thought modern artists love being the centre of attention, and yet this one looks just as miserable as Frank feels.
And then the guy turns around, and Frank immediately recognises his face.
“Gerard?”
He hasn't changed much since Frank last saw him. He cut his hair shorter and dyed it black, and he looks skinnier and even more tired than all those years ago, but this, undoubtedly, is Gerard Way.
“Frankie?”
His voice sounds steadier than he remembers. Louder, too.
“You know each other?” the woman says, and Frank mutters something about growing up in the same neighbourhood. He isn't sure if anyone in here knows what Gerard really is, and name dropping the academy might as well be an outing.
Gerard looks at him, a hint of a smile on his lips.
“So,” Frank looks around, unsure what to say. “Did you paint them all?”
A slight nod.
“Cool,” Frank tries not to look him in the eyes. “It's… nice. You’ve changed your style.”
But not the themes. Now that Frank looks closer, he can recognise Gerard's hand in all the paintings: it's all about birds and angels, broken and mutilated wings, only instead of watercolours and soft lines the paintings are filled with sharp edges and spots of black, grey and brown.
“You don't have to lie.”
“I’m not! I’m glad you got what you wanted.”
Gerard shakes his head. “Thank you,” he mutters.
There are so many things Frank wants to ask. He hasn't seen the Way brothers in years, and his breakup with Gerard was just as ugly and messy as you would expect from two people who greup and realised the whole “two against the world” thing is getting old.
And then he notices it: the painting right behind Gerard's back. It's abstract, shapes of black, red and white, and yet from the distance they finally start to make sense, and now Frank can't stop seeing it.
It's him and Gerard, back in the academy days, limbs intertwined, bodies desperately trying to become one. There is something uncanny about it, and Frank briefly wonders if this is how Gerard has always seen what they had going between them: as some kind of hopeless, erotic codependency.
Gerard seems to notice his interest.
“It's yours,” he says. “If you want it.”
Frank isn't sure he does. It's just another painful reminder of what he used to have once. But Gerard is waiting for the answer, and Frank knows it's going to break his heart if he declines, no matter how politely.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I… thanks.”
Someone — Frank thinks it's the owner of the gallery — proposes a toast for the successful opening of the exhibition and starts on a long speech about modern art, and Frank whispers: “Wanna get outta here?”
He doesn't have to ask twice.
***
“How are things?” Frank asks.
They're walking down the street, past the brightly lit storefronts decorated for the holiday season. Frank internally cringes at the cheap plastic decorations and fake snow.
“Good,” Gerard says quietly. “I’m— I’m good.” He pauses. “I see you on the news sometimes.”
“You do?”
Frank never took him for someone who would have a TV, let alone watch the news.
“You're a celebrity. Of course I do.” Gerard offers him a faint smile. “Do you like it?”
“Being a superhero?” Frank shrugs. “I don't know, man. Not what I imagined for sure.”
That much is true: back at the academy he believed, as everyone else who got on the team, that he was going to save the world and protect the common people. The harsh reality consists of PR teams, interviews and ad campaigns with an occasional rescue mission to keep up the illusion. Frank might be the only one from his year who still patrols the streets. It might not be much, but at least he's trying to help.
“You're doing a good thing,” Gerard says.
“Yeah, that's mostly PR,” Frank lets out a sad laugh. “I’m not supposed to tell you, actually, but most of that shit is staged.”
“Oh.”
“Yep. I’ve got a vigilante thing going, so I’m actually, y’know, doing my best to help, and I think I’m going to quit the official part next year.” And then, to change the topic: “You talk more than I remember.”
“Speech therapy,” Gerard avoids looking at him. “I’m still— I have problems. But I’m better. And I don't have to talk to many people with what I do.”
“Wait, so that,” Frank waves in the direction behind his back, “actually pays off?”
“I draw comics. Mostly. Take commissions sometimes, as a side job. That was my first exhibition.” Gerard shudders at the gust of the cold wind. “I didn't want to, but Mikey insisted I should try it.”
Mikey. Frank hasn't heard from him since the incident — to be fair, he hasn't heard from either of the brothers since then. He was just… too busy at first to contact them, and then found out they moved back to New Jersey and cut ties with the entire community.
And yet here they are. After all those years.
“How is he? Mikey.”
“Better,” sharp and cold, a clear ‘I don't want to talk about it anymore’.
Too bad Frank has never been the one to shut up when needed.
“Come on, man, I haven't seen any of you in ages!”
“You didn't bother to call.”
“And I’m sorry!” Frank sighs. “I am so sorry I didn't call.”
Gerard doesn't look at him. It's hard to tell what he's thinking right now — always has been, and if anything he has only gotten better at hiding his true feelings.
“He runs a business,” Gerard says finally. “Something big, I don't know the details. Has to use a cane, but— but it's better than what the doctors thought.”
The doctors believed Mikey would have to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. Frank remembers that part.
“Good. That's— that's good,” and suddenly he feels uncomfortable talking about it anymore. “You want coffee?”
***
“Did you know they stopped accepting kids to the academy?”
Frank stares at his coffee. He didn't: moreover, he has met more than one person who graduated from the same academy as him, so he is sure it’s still up and running.
“What do you mean? There's plenty—”
“Kids like me.”
Abused by their families. Mutilated. Stripped of their powers. Gerard doesn't say any of it, but Frank understands nonetheless.
“Why?” Frank fiddles with his lip piercing. “I thought they had the resources.”
Gerard shrugs. “I guess they don't want them. I mean, you know about my… situation.” He swallows hard. “I was— I’m useless.”
“You're not!”
“I am for them.” Gerard lowers his head. “There's— there’s a shelter for these kids. Here, in New York. I help them out, teach the kids art,” he leans forward. “There are so many of them, Frankie.”
It's probably the wrong thing to ask, but Frank does it anyway.
“Do they know about your wings?”
Gerard winces, and Frank regrets opening his mouth.
“Yeah,” his voice is barely audible. “I keep them out when I'm there. Want them to know they still have a chance.”
Frank wonders if these kids do have a chance outside of shelters or if this is just wishful thinking on Gerard's side. He wonders how many of these kids don't live long enough to get help, how many don't know there are people out there who want to help.
He wonders how many get to the academy only to get thrown out to the real world after graduation because their powers don't fit the criteria for the superhero career.
“Hey, at least they got a place to go,” he says. “Maybe I could visit too, sometime.”
Gerard gives him a strange look. “If Mikey’s okay with it.”
“What's Mikey got to—” the realisation dawns on him. “Wait, he runs it?!”
Gerard’s face is unreadable. “Unofficially,” he suddenly grabs Frank’s hand. “Listen, I’m only telling you this because I know you. He— Mikey doesn't want his name on it. The– the building is his property, a-and he pays for everything, but,” he takes a deep breath to collect himself, “but his business partners don't know who he is. What he is.”
“And he's worried about his safety.”
“Maybe. I don't know. He doesn't talk to me about what he does.”
Mikey hasn't changed a bit, it seems, still guarding his secrets like his life depends on it.
Gerard finishes his coffee probably a bit too fast than he needs to.
“I should head home,” he says.
“Didn't think you were in a hurry.”
“I’m not, it's just— I have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”
Frank grabs his hand. “Stay,” he pleads. “Just— Jesus Christ, I haven't seen you for so long.”
And then, before he can realise what he's doing, his lips connect with Gerard's, and all of a sudden they're kissing, and God, has he missed it.
He is about to do something foolish, something he surely will regret in the morning, and still, when Gerard finally breaks the kiss, he grins and whispers: “Your place or mine?”
***
Gerard still has a habit of letting his wings out when he sleeps. Frank doesn't know if his concentration slips or if he finds it more comfortable this way. He doesn't mind: he hasn't seen his wings in so long he almost forgot how beautiful they are.
They look healthy. Healthier than back at the academy, at least — Gerard must be taking good care of them, even if it's just an act for the kids at the shelter, — and Frank can't resist the temptation to touch them.
Gerard flinches. “Don't,” he rasps, still half-asleep.
“What's the matter? You used to—”
“Things changed.”
Gerard is fully awake now. He sits up, rubbing his eyes, and there is a reddened print of the pillow on his cheek, and his hair is a mess, and he looks so beautiful in the morning light with his wings half-spread to keep the balance.
“Gee—”
“I’m sorry,” he lowers his gaze. “It was a mistake, I’m sorry.”
“What the hell are you talking about?!”
Gerard whimpers. His head is low, and he's doing the same thing he used to do when he was a teenager, trying to hide his face behind his hair, only this time it's too short to do the trick.
“It’s—” he stammers, “It’s just, I— we didn’t really— we were kids. It didn’t mean anything.”
“What?!”
Gerard shakes his head.
“I was in a bad place back then,” his voice is barely audible now. “You were— you were nice. To me. I mistook it for love, it’s like, it was just a high school crush.”
And this makes Frank furious.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” He shouts, and Gerard curls into himself, wings spread out like he's trying to look bigger in the face of danger. “You disappeared for years, Gerard! Years! And now you're saying what we had was a fucking mistake?”
Gerard bolts to the door. He barely manages to put his pants on, almost crushing to the floor in the process, and tries to put on the shirt but the wings get in the way which makes him stop and take it off.
“Great, fucking run away again,” Frank scoffs. “It's what you always do anyway.” He knows it's cruel, but he can't help turning the knife just a little more. “Get the hell out, I don't wanna see you again!”
This is when Gerard finally reaches the front door. His wings are still out, he's half-naked, and Frank suspects that the neighbours are going to see him in all the glory.
“That priest should've finished the fucking job!”
He instantly regrets it.
Gerard freezes. The wings finally disappear, and he's left standing in the hallway, clutching his shirt and coat with trembling hands.
“I’m sorry,” Frank whispers. “Please, Gee, I’m sorry, I shouldn't have said that, I—”
Gerard pushes him away, and if looks could kill, Frank would be dead by now. He watches as Gerard puts on his shirt and coat in silence, and he wants to die from shame and guilt.
God damn his stupid tongue for saying all these things.
“Gee—”
“Fuck you, Frank.”
The door slams behind Gerard's back.
***
He still comes to the gallery the next day, to see if Gerard's offer still stands. Maybe he will even be there himself. Maybe Frank will have the chance to say how sorry he is.
Gerard isn't there, but the gallery manager smiles at him and says that yes, the painting is his now, and no, he doesn't have to pay for it, and if he could give the address so that they could ship it to him as soon as possible — the artist's wishes, yes, he insisted that this particular painting is to be shipped off to the new owner before the exhibition ends.
Gerard wants to get rid of it, Frank realises. Whether it was his plan from the start or just a momentary lapse of reason after what happened last night, now he wants to erase it all.
Frank can’t find the strength to be angry. He knows he would’ve done the same, maybe even with more drama, like finding his home address and setting the painting on fire at the front lawn just to rub it in.
He wants to take another look at the painting, just to see if he really saw what he did that evening or if it was his own mind playing tricks on him. Maybe there is no double meaning, no symbolism, no hidden nods to the people who know — Frank wonders if there are people who know apart from him, Gerard and Mikey, — and it was just Gerard’s presence affecting him.
He runs into a guy on his way. Just some guy, Frank has never seen him in his life — he would remember that afro, — and yet there is something odd about him, Frank isn’t sure what exactly.
And then the guy twitches, like he has heard something, and glares at him, and all of a sudden Frank doesn’t want to be anywhere near Gerard’s painting, or the gallery in general — and this is weird, because the guy looks like the least threatening person in the world, and yet Frank is terrified of him.
Frank gets outside before he can even think about it. For a few moments he just stands there, dumbfounded, staring at the gallery doors. He half-expects Afro to follow him, maybe even start a fight, but nothing happens. The guy walks past him, completely ignoring Frank, like he doesn’t exist at all, and gets inside a car parked nearby.
Frank thinks he can see someone familiar in the passenger seat.
It must be just the reflection of the light.