Forever Younger, Growing Older

The year 1979 was a common year in which uncommon things occurred. Frank Iero would later refer to the year as the best of his life, and the best year of his life began on January first, when he woke up in a stranger's bed.

Groaning, he rolled out of the lavish bed, stunned at the quality. He never usually would have landed someone with this level of wealth, and he tried to recall just whose bed it was.

Nothing came to him. He had no recollection of the night past 10:30, when Jimmy forced him to attend a New Year's Party. Frank never went to parties unless he had the explicit promise of booze, and there must have been enough to go around, since he didn't remember anything. His brain pulsated in his skull and all he wanted was a cigarette and an aspirin.

He got out of the bed, pulling on his black jeans and wiping the sleep out of his eyes. A streak of black came off on his arm— his eyeliner, left over from the night. The streak blended in with the ink on his hands and fingers, and he wondered yet again how he ended up in the soft, creme-colored sheets.

As he pulled on his decimated black shirt, he surveyed the room he was in. The whole room was in shades of white and red: the bed, the vanity, the lace curtains on the tall windows. The walls, the blanket at the foot of the bed, and the plush carpet were the color of wine. The room was lit by an extravagant chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the golden glow of the electrical lights mixing with the sunlight coming through the lace curtains. Whomever's bedroom Frank was in, they had to be stinking, filthy rich.

Frank didn't bother fixing his hair in the slightest as he slid on his leather jacket, escaping through the cracked door. He didn't bother sticking around to check out the hallway, knowing that it was just as amazing as the bedroom. Just as he was wondering where the hell was up in this house, he heard a high, sweet voice floating from down the hallway. "Frankie?" The voice asked. Then, a man appeared at the end of the hall.

Even from the distance, Frank could tell that he was beautiful. A smooth, pale complexion, with a love-mark his neck. His jaw was sharp, void of any scruff; his eyes, a mix of bright green and dazzling gold and warm hazel, framed by thick, black eyelashes on the top. His nose was slim, upturned slightly at the end. His hair was the darkest black, hanging at his chin and curling at the ends. He was dressed in a pair of tight black jeans and a shirt advertising the Who, the sleeves cut off and the neckline stretched out far enough to see his collarbones, littered with soft red marks that Frank had supposedly made the night before. He had a silk floral robe on, hanging at his knees with elbows-length billowy sleeves, with a leather cuff around his left wrist and numerous necklaces hanging from neck. Frank wondered yet again about the man he had gotten into bed with, until the man spoke again. "You want a drink?" he asked, his voice lilting and chirpy, and Frank immediately softened.

"I have the worst hangover, actually," Frank said. "I think I need an aspirin, and I'll pop out."

"What?" The man exclaimed and came up to Frank, his hips swaying as he walked. "You can't leave yet." He draped his arms around Frank's neck, looking into Frank's eyes.

"I, umm," Frank started. "I have to get home. I honestly usually don't do this much, and I—"

"Do what?" He asked. "One night stands?"

"No," Frank started. He wished he knew the man's name. "My friend Jimmy says that, when he does it, he 'nuts and bolts'. I stick around for longer, but I'm working today. I have to leave, I'm sorry."

The man poked his bottom lip out, whining softly. "Don't leave," he begged. "Stay with me for a little longer."

"I can't," Frank repeated, softly removing the man's arms. Now that he was closer, he wasn't one-hundred percent sure the man was actually a man. A boy, maybe, but he couldn't be much older than 18 or 19. "I'll call you when I get off around noon. Alright?"

"Alright," the man said, cheerful again, and Frank gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. When he pulled away, the man wet his lips with the tip of tongue, as if asking for a kiss on his lips, and Frank couldn't help but comply, claiming the man's mouth.

He tasted like whisky and the odd spice-like taste that weed left; Frank didn't mind either. The man lazily slid his tongue over Frank's, only pulling away to breath. "I have to go, or I'll be really late," Frank said, laughing softly. "I'll see you tonight."

"Alrighty," the man said and removed himself from Frank.

Frank had to pretend to know the way out of the house, eventually finding the right out, and he stepped into the blinding sunlight. He groaned and slid his sunglasses out of the pocket of his jacket, pushing them into his face. He slung his jacket around his shoulders and started down the sidewalk.

He instantly recognized the neighborhood, but he wondered what the hell he was doing in Bel-Air. And who the hell did he shack up with? Frank dug around in his pocket and came up with a nickel, just the right amount of money.

He inserted the coin into the first pay phone he came across, tapping his fingertips against the blue metal box. "Yello?" Jimmy's smooth voice answered almost immediately.

"Who did I go home with last night?" Frank asked in a rush, brushing his hair off of his forehead.

"Dude, are you playing?" Jimmy scoffed.

"James, I'm not fucking around," Frank snarled. "Who did I go home with? I don't remember anything about last night past about arriving at the party."

"Man, you went home with Gerard fucking Way," Jimmy laughed. "I applaud you."

Before Frank could ask who 'Gerard fucking Way' was— the man rang a bell, but he couldn't place why— Jimmy said, "Gotta go. Chanti's getting on me 'bout something. Talk soon." Then, he hung up.

Frank hung the phone back on the hook, with more questions than when he started. Who was Gerard Way? Why did Jimmy congratulate him on bedding the man? How in the world did Gerard afford a mansion in Bel-Air?

Frank pondered everything as he walked to the record store where he worked, receiving choice glances from the people walking down the street. He truly had no idea what time it was, but he used the work excuse to leave Gerard's house. He did have work that day— that wasn't bullshit— but it started at seven.

The bell above the door tinkled melodiously as Frank pushed into the record shop, and Frank was reminded of Gerard's tinkling laugh. He hadn't laughed that morning, though; Frank had to be remembering the night before. "Frank, it's 9:30," the man behind the counter said, putting his copy of Rolling Stone. Ray was never the kind of boss to get too upset at his employees, and he was lax with Frank since they had known each other for four years. "Where were you?"

"In Bel-Air," Frank answered, pulling his sunglasses off and hanging them on the neckline of his shirt.

"Why?" Ray asked, pushing back his curly hair out of his eyes.

"I went home with someone last night," Frank said. "That reminds me, do you know who Gerard Way is?"

"Did you sleep with Gerard Way?" Ray asked, his eyes widening. "Okay, this is really crass, but I gotta know: who topped?"

"I don't remember," Frank said. "I woke up with a hangover and I can't remember anything from last night. And my ass doesn't hurt like it usually does, so I— Wait, you know who Gerard Way is?"

"Have I been living under a rock?" Ray asked. "Jesus, Frank, are you serious? Gerard Way? Black hair, hazel eyes, totally and completely gay?"

"Who the hell is he?" Frank cried. "His name is familiar but I can't remember why."

"It'll come to you," Ray said. "Can you go organize the vinyls?"

"Sure thing," Frank said and made his way to the back of the store.

About halfway through alphabetizing the heavy metal records, Frank's boot nudged the edge of a plastic crate, protruding slightly from underneath the tables. The tables had bits of fabric staples to the sides, hiding the stacks of old music mags underneath and making the store seem at least a bit organized, and Frank found it odd that the crate was as far out from under the table as it was. He dismissed it, though, pushing a Queen vinyl into its appropriate place.

By the time he got to Led Zeppelin, his curiosity piqued and he put down the stack of vinyls. Now that he noticed the crate, he couldn't get his mind off of it. Checking over his shoulder to make sure Ray didn't see, he stalked back over to the crate, dropping down onto the carpet and pulling out the crate all the way.

It was filled with Polaroids in semi-neat piles, each caption space filled out with the same two words: little gee. Every Polaroid contained the 'little gee' caption, and Frank finally dared to look at the actual pictures.

He was shocked that A) a man was in the pictures, and B) the pictures were in his place of employment for however long they've been there. They all featured the same raven-haired man in different provocative poses, dressed in various pieces of lacy lingerie. In some, he was seductively biting his bottom lip, and other he had his fingertips in his mouth; every one of them had him looking at the camera with a sultry look in his eyes. Another constant with all of the Polaroids was the small white bunny logo in the bottom left corner.

Frank gripped a particular Polaroid so hard, it bent in his fingers. The one had little Gerard Way against a soft blue background, making the blue undertones of his pitch dark hair stand out. He had on a large black sweatshirt that had the sleeves pulled down over his knuckles with the familiar bunny logo on the front, and white thigh-high socks with lace on the trim. His hips were covered by the bottom hem of the sweatshirt, but half an inch of black lace was visible underneath it. Gerard had a soft smile on his pink lips, his eyes lined with black liner and giving the camera bedroom eyes, and his arms were in different positions; his left up, pushing up his hair slightly and making it seem as if he had sex hair, his right arm down, attempting to pull the sweatshirt down. The bunny was in the bottom corner, with 'little gee' written in bright pink ink. The handwriting was slightly feminine, curved and loopy, the dot over the 'i' a small heart.

"Little Gee?" Frank whispered, and someone cleared their throat behind him. "Shit!" Frank yelped and jumped to see Ray behind him, smiling slyly.

"Find out who your mystery man is?" Ray smirked and Frank tried to flatten the Polaroid on the carpet.

"He's a model for fucking nudy mag," Frank mumbled. "Are you trying to tell me that I landed a Playboy Bunny?"

Ray nodded. "You can keep those," he said, nodding at the crate of photos. "Sure they'll be more use to you than me."

"How did you even have these?" Frank asked, placing all of the Polaroids back in the crate.

"Jimmy came running up in here about ten minutes 'fore you got here," Ray said. "Screaming 'bout how you slept with a Bunny, and carrying that crate. He shoved it in there and I just didn't think about it."

Frank sat back on his heels, running his hand down his face. "I fucked a Bunny," he said slowly, still in shock. "A goddamn Playboy Bunny. Wait-wait-wait! I have his phone number!"

"He gave you his number?" Ray asked. Frank dug around in the pocket of his jacket until he came across a cocktail napkin. He pulled it out and found the same curving, loopy handwriting spelling out 'little gee' with a series of numbers under the nickname and a lipstick kiss mark next to it. He showed it to Ray, who whistled.

"Good job, dude," he said. "Why is there a kiss mark?"

Frank shook his head. "Don't remember anything," he said in a sing-song voice and pushed the napkin back into his pocket.

"So, you're assuming you topped?" Ray asked and Frank rolled his eyes, standing up.

"Fuck you," he said. "And yes."

Notes

Roman Holiday was deleted and Golden Days is amazing, so here you go. My account was fucking up for a little while and the page would refresh every time I tried to log in and just, it was a mess. Everything's fixed now, though, so we should be cool.

This is is going to take place in 1979, which is the year mentioned in Golden Days. I've never written an era Frerard before, and I love the 70s/80s, so yeah.

And Gerard is sorta based off of Felix Dawkins from Orphan Black: weird, clingy, dresses in the fucking weirdest shit ever (I actually own the outfit I made Gerard wear and lemme tell you, the Who shirt is the comfiest thing I've ever worn in my life).

Updates soon, hopefully! xoKristin