Runaways
1
To whomever it may concern,
In case you haven't already guessed, my name is Frank Iero; enclosed are five letters detailing all the necessary events up until the 31st October to prove my innocence. As you may already know, I am wanted for the murder of Alexander Christopher Jones, and for armed robbery. These accusations, whilst true in some sense, are unjust and inaccurate, and my hopes in writing to you is to prove to you that I can in no way be viewed as guilty.
These letters should arrive at Jersey police station sometime around the fourth and fifth of November - if you're reading them now then I should tell you now that searching for me is futile and you won't find me. I have already left Jersey and am at this very minute - that is to say, as I am writing this letter - contemplating whether to move to another state or completely flee the country. You will gather more information simply by reading the letters I have sent - as the accounts I have described are the whole truth and have not been embellished or fabricated in any way - than you would investigating the case further and questioning people who may or may not have known me before this all happened.
First of all, I must beg that you leave my mother alone. She is not responsible for any of this and I would hate to think of her getting bullied into answering a load of ridiculous questions from uneducated police officers while I am not there to protect her.
Secondly, I would appreciate it if you didn't attempt to contact anyone I mention in these letters. None of the names have been altered for privacy purposes; I am trusting you with the names of every single person who has affected my life in the last three months, and I would appreciate it if you would trust me to tell you the truth. Obviously, I cannot know whether you chose to search for the people who played a big part in recent events, but if you simply read to the end of this set of letters you will - hopefully - see that I and everyone in my story is innocent.
Now that the 'terms and conditions' are over with, I can begin to explain just what has been happening and where it all went wrong. Wrong. Truly, I don't know how I feel about that wording; I believe everything started going right for me when I first met Gerard. Before I met him, my life was boring and monotonous and the same thing ever single day. I know you'll have heard this all before: stupid high school kid thinks his life is on a loop and desperately wants change, so he'll throw himself at the first bad influence that comes along if it shakes things up a little.
That's not what happened - not exactly. Gerard wasn't so much a bad influence as a free spirit. Nobody could control what he did - sometimes I didn't even think he could control his actions - and so what the rest of the world saw as 'leading astray' was really Gerard's way of opening up to me. He showed me a little piece of himself each time he supplied me with drugs, and I unraveled another tangle of his confusing personality every time he snuck me into a bar when I was very clearly underage.
I suppose I should tell you how I met him, shouldn't I? This is the bit I dread the most. I will tell you, and you will judge us both because you will read and blame him. You'll think, 'that Gerard was nothing but a dirty pervert who deserves to be locked away' and for that I shall hate you, but I will continue writing to you because I know it's the only way to prove I - we - are guiltless.
Please promise me that you will reserve all judgement until you have read up to the very last sentence on the very last letter I send to you? Please do this for me?
It was a Thursday. I remember that, just like I remember everything about that day; every little detail and snippet of information has been recorded and remembered and stored away in a very special place in my head I use only for special things. Why you ask? Because it was the day I finally started living my life. Before that wonderful, beautiful man, it was like I had been living underwater and when I met him I surfaced. I knew - or I thought I knew - that he would most likely leave me breathless and gasping for air and wishing I had never met him, but the danger was intoxicating. The risk of being with him was addictive and I was an addict for his personality and his quirky traits and sexy half smirk.
It was raining, and I was grumbling because I had missed the bus. I got sick very easily, you see, and I knew if I stayed out in the cold for any longer than absolutely necessary I would most certainly get ill. I hated being ill; there is nothing attractive about being bedridden for weeks and coughing up a lung any time you take a breath to speak, I can assure you.
So, like anybody with a single brain cell in their body, I decided to sit the evening downpour out and wait out the weather under the bus stop. It was small: plastic and uncomfortable and inevitably it got cramped if there were any more than three people waiting there, but it was better than walking home and getting soaked to the skin. It didn't protect me from the chill biting at my nose and ears - I had to brave that out by pulling down my hood even further and pulling up my shirt to cover my face - but it would keep the rain away and for that I was grateful.
Gerard was there. I saw him and I recollect my first thoughts: 'Christ, he's hot', 'does he look gay?' and 'maybe he'd fuck me'. Sorry for the vulgarity of that last one;'you wanted honesty and I'm all for being honest. Especially since I was the "Most Wanted Kiddy-Criminal in Jersey!" Statement courtesy of the local tabloids; their wit and originality never fails to amaze me.
He was perched awkwardly on the too-thin, too-dirty plastic bench that the bus stop provided, scrolling through his phone and smoking a cigarette. While his posture may have been awkward, he had a sense of aloofness that made him stick out like a sore thumb. Jersey wasn't exactly known for it's rich and famous millionaires, and with meeting someone new comes the worries and doubts that that same person will hold you up and threaten you with a pocket knife as you're walking home later that night.
Gerard though... Gerard didn't look dangerous. He did, but not in the way that made you worry for your life. He looked like trouble. He looked like breaking curfews and bending rules and sneaking out of the window. He looked like smoking marijuana in a musty old basement and making love in an old bed with squeaky springs. He looked like awkward conversations with parents overly eager to please, and bitter conversations about it afterwards. He looked dangerous. He looked beautiful.
Of course, I didn't know all of that the first time I saw him. It's so hard to voice your thoughts in a particular moment when you're looking at it in hindsight, don't you agree? It's difficult not to say, "what I should have done," or, "what I later found out," because of course in the moment you don't know any of that. You're only thinking about what's happening right in front of you - you don't have time to procrastinate and analyse every single detail of the encounter until later.
I'm sorry if I go off on tangents. I'm writing what comes to mind in a vain attempt to show you what really happened. The truth, naked and ugly and honest, rather than what everybody seems to think happened.
So back to Gerard, smoking and scrolling and looking awkward and dangerous at the same time. I approached cautiously, and at first he didn't seem to notice me. Like an idiot, I had left my phone at home which was why I couldn't call my mother to come and pick me up in the first place, so there was little for me to do to pass the time except watch the weather for signs of the rain stopping. Well, that or watch Gerard. Being the hormonal teenage boy with a desperate need for change that I was, I chose the latter without hesitation. Silly me, thinking I was being discreet.
He was wearing what later turned out to be one of my favourite shirts on him: a tight black T-Shirt with the logo of some band I'd never heard of emblazoned across his chest. It looked to be a few sizes to small for him and was riding up at the hips, exposing a pale strip of flesh over curvy hipbones as well as accentuating his chest. He looked good, there was no denying that.
He was wearing a pair of baggy jeans that fell down a little around his waist, allowing for more skin to be visible and his large chunky boots added to the outfit to give him more of an edge. His hair was black, evidence of dark brown roots growing through that led me to believe black was not his natural colour - and every few seconds his arm would shoots up and his hand would brush through his hair. A few strands would fall in front of his face though. They always did, and they still do, even now.
While I had been blatantly checking him out, I failed to notice he had put his phone away and was now looking me dead in the eye. I blinked a few times and promptly turned bright red. I was tempted to look away; to glance around at the sky and the floor and the line of traffic running from Bellville all the way to fucking Summit. Anywhere, as long as I was not meeting his intense stare.
But there was something about his eyes that just trapped me there, unable to move, unable to blink, unable to breathe. Slowly, slowly, he smiled with one half of his mouth and brought the cigarette to his mouth. His tongue darted out to wet his lips before settling the poisonous thing in between them, taking a drag painfully slow and never taking his eyes off me. When his cheeks were completely hollowed around the cigarette in his mouth and he could no longer take in any more nicotine, he moved his hand down to hang by his thigh, the cigarette dangling tantalisingly between his middle and index finger. He blew out the smoke into my face in a way that made my eyes water, and I would have guessed he was teasing me. I would have guessed right, as it turned out.
"Hi." He said quietly, his voice too high to be masculine but too low to be feminine. One of his eyebrows was raised slightly and his hip was cocked to the side, one half of his body resting against the structure of the bus stop. It was one word, a simple greeting that nobody else would have taken to heart the way I did, but to me it sounded like a challenge. It sounded like he was daring me to talk to him when it was obvious I was uncomfortable and perhaps even a little in awe of the stranger in front of me.
I coughed, clearing my throat in case my voice betrayed me. When I was sure I wasn't going to humiliate myself if I spoke, I choked out a small, "Hey," and shuffled backwards a little. He watched me with an unwavering gaze, a hint of amusement in his deep, twinkling eyes.
At that point, I didn't know how old he was exactly but it was clear he wasn't a child, or even a teenager. He had a vibe of sophistication that made me self conscious, and I did the only thing I could think of to make myself look... tougher? Was that the look I was going for? I think it was, although I don't think I was thinking straight when I looked at him.
"Can I bum a cigarette?" I asked, deliberately making my voice deeper and rougher than it naturally was so I wouldn't appear juvenile and childlike. I grew up to the knowledge that smoking was bad, and I had always promised myself I would never destroy my lungs with those '"cancer sticks", but here I was, ignoring my morals in the hopes of impressing a boy. Or in this case, a man.
He knew, of course, he always knew, that I had never smoked before. It wasn't hard to figure out honestly, but he didn't say anything about it. He simply shrugged and nodded in one fluent movement, handing my the cigarette he was smoking instead of lighting another one up for me. I weakly attempted to stop the burst of happiness that exploded in my stomach when he did that, telling myself that cigarettes are expensive and he probably just didn't want to run out of them, right?
I took it nervously and just stared at it for a little while, unsure what I was supposed to do. When he tilted his head and widened his eyes at me innocently, just watching, I realised I was supposed to be smoking it. I brought the dreaded thing up to my lips and hesitantly took a puff, regretting it the moment the bitter smoke tried to force its way down my throat. I spluttered and coughed for a good few minutes before I was able to breathe properly again while Gerard looked on and laughed hysterically.
He shook his head at me and held his hand out for the cigarette, which I handed to him, purposefully brushing my fingers against his.
"You're doing it wrong." He informed me, shaking his head in a way that, had it been anyone else, would have seemed condescending to me. With him though, I didn't find it patronising. It seemed like he genuinely wanted to help me smoke. Which was odd, because he didn't know a thing about me, so why would he want to help me?
I feel like I should mention briefly that while I am writing this, Gerard is sitting next to me and down right ordering me to write that he wanted to help because he is, and I quote, "a kind hearted, sexy motherfucker who can spot a keeper from a mile away". I get far too excited when he says I'm a keeper. What can I say? I fell for him hard.
Back to that first rainy evening, and Gerard beckoned for me to come closer, which I did albeit reluctantly. "Open your mouth." He instructed, and I blushed profusely, trying to imagine he was a dentist saying that and not an incredibly attractive potential lover. I parted my lips confusedly while he sucked in the smoke, and then closed his mouth, holding his breath. For a second I had no idea what he was doing, and then when I realised it was far too late to react, and I was far too enthralled with watching him step closer to me and place a cold hand on my warm cheek. He leaned down, bending his neck so his head was at the same level as mine, and then placing his lips on mine. He tentatively transferred the smoke from his mouth to mine, keeping his lips there to stop me from breathing it out and snaking a hand round to the back of my neck to stop me from pulling away.
Unable to move or struggle against him, I squeezed my eyes shut and swallowed down the addictive smoke until I had successfully smoked. Kind of.
Gerard - not that I knew his name at that point - sensed it was alright to move and he stepped back, watching me intently. He seemed to be checking that I was okay with what just happened, and when I made no move to turn and run to the hills, he let a cocky grin sneak onto his face.
"There you go." He smiled at me and I felt weak at the knees at the sight of his dazzlingly white teeth and pink, kissable lips. I wanted to lean in and let what just happened repeat itself over and over again but I didn't have the guts. I just breathed in and out rapidly with an open mouth and a shell-shocked expression which I'm sure was quite hilarious to witness.
"I'm Gerard." He continued, flicking ash onto the ground casually and inspecting his nails like he hadn't just kissed me. The only thing giving him away was the light blush creeping up his visible neck and the way his eyes would dart up to look at me every other second and then look away shyly. When I made no attempt to reply, perfectly content to just stand there in complete and utter shock for the rest of my life, he rolled his eyes dramatically and clucked his tongue,
almost as if he were scolding me for my total lack of social skill. "What's your name?"
"F-Frank." I stuttered. The rain had stopped by then but there was no way I was going anywhere. Not whilst I could hold a conversation with Gerard.
"Well F-Frank." He mocked, gazing at me with overly innocent eyes and an easygoing tone of voice. "What's a kid like you doing out all alone at this time of night?"
Gerard's voice was laced with humour but I couldn't help but bristle at being called "kid". I know I'm short, but it's obvious I'm not a child. It wasn't even that late - half nine at the latest - and I was overwhelmed with the amount of sarcastic, snappy comebacks. I didn't say any of them of
course. Too nervous.
"I'm hardly a kid." I said bitterly, crossing my arms over my chest and neglecting to answer his question. If he was going to be rude to me, I owed him the same courtesy, I decided. Naturally, that resolve didn't last long. Not when I heard his beautiful, tinkling laughter and felt him sidle up closer to me so that his bare arm brushed against mine. My skin tingled where his arm had brushed against me and it was suddenly very hard to breathe. Have you ever had that feeling, detective? Have you ever met an amazing man or woman and decided that was the person you wanted to spend the rest of your life with? I swear to whatever God there is, that's what I felt in that moment. I was being drowned with affection for a man I had met but ten minutes ago, and it frightened me.
"So how old are you, Frankie? Because you look rather young to me." Gerard's eyes raked over my body, and had it been anyone else I would have found myself cringing and wanting to run away from the situation. When it was Gerard though, I wanted him to look. I wanted him to look and like what he saw, and I wanted to put myself on display for Gerard and I wanted to have him watch in awe. So instead of turning away from him in disgust, I leaned in closer to his, looking straight ahead at the busy road as I replied.
"I'm seventeen. Seventeen is old enough, don't you think?"
Without even looking, I could hear the smug smirk in his voice and I remember rolling my eyes at him. "Old enough for what?" He taunted. "What did you have in mind, Frank?"
"How old are you then, Gerard? You don't look too old yourself." He challenged, even though it wasn't strictly true. He didn't look old, but his face had a wise, contemplative look that proved he was older than he appeared to be.
"Age is just a number, Frankie my darling." He laughed, sucking on the cigarette like it was the best damn thing he'd ever tasted, and I frowned at his response. That was not how it was supposed to go. Why would he push me to tell him my age if 'age was just a number' to him?
Please let me repeat, detective, so that I don't mislead you and there is no chance of you interpreting my words in the wrong way, that Gerard was - and still is - stubborn. He's a joker, and a tease and a flirt, but never for one second did he do anything I didn't want him to. If he did, I would have walked away immediately without a backwards glance, but he was polite underneath his brave facade, and he was kind behind his put-on self confidence. No. I stayed because I liked him, and that is all on me. Not him.
"You never answered my question." He pointed out, changing the subject. I wasn't having it though.
"You never answered mine." I replied, biting back the smirk that came with the snappy response.
Gerard chuckled and nodded in defeat, leaning his elbows bad, against the bus stop and thrusting his hips outwards in a provocative manner. I swear I drooled, and he just lapped up the attention. While I was salivating over him, he had started bargaining with me.
"You answer me and I'll answer you?" He asked, letting his tongue trace his lower lip seductively when I nodded breathlessly. "You first Frankie." He said, and when I opened my mouth to object he bit his lip and looked at me through his eyelashes in a way that he knew would make me do anything he wanted.
"I got kicked out of a bar." I admitted, feeling my cheeks flare in embarrassment. "They ID'd me and I left my fake at home, along with my phone. I missed the last bus and I gotta walk."
Gerard nodded in understanding, clucking sympathetically in all the right places as I spewed the tales of my uneventful night to him. I began to think that maybe it would have been better to not have agreed to the deal. Age is just a number anyway, right? Who cared how old he was, if I didn't have to bring attention to how young I was in his eyes again?
"Twenty nine." He finally said without me having to prompt him. He even looked a little guilty to say his age, as if he felt bad for acting the way he did around me when he was over a decade older than me. To tell the truth, I wasn't all that surprised that he was almost thirty. The way he held himself made it clear he wasn't a newly turned adult, and he was still the same man I developed an odd, almost instantaneous crush on.
We were silent for a long time. The rain had started up again, but less of a torrential downpour and more of a gentle shower. The only sounds were the soothing pitter patter of the droplets of water hitting the roof of the shelter and the inhales and exhales of Gerard as he smoked. I didn't know what time it was but it was getting dark and my mother would probably be getting worried, but I didn't want to shatter the peaceful silence we were standing in.
Finally, finally, because I was beginning to worry he'd never ask, Gerard said, "So do you want my number?"
There was an insecure edge to his voice this time, and I could see past all his masks to the naked truth. He was afraid; afraid of rejection, afraid of being unwanted, afraid of being unneeded. And he definitely wasn't any of those, so I did the only logical thing I could think of to do.
I cocked my head and smiled and replied with, "Only if you kiss me again."
I'm afraid I must go now. This is the end of my first letter, and while I am tempted to send each finished letter individually, I suspect you would ignore my requests to wait for the last sentence
of my last letter before making any rash decisions, so it's better I wait.
Thank you for your patience and thank you for reading this. Even if I don't know who you are, I hope you come to the conclusion everybody else does when I tell the, my story: that being Gerard and I are blameless.
Yours sincerely,
Frank Iero.
In case you haven't already guessed, my name is Frank Iero; enclosed are five letters detailing all the necessary events up until the 31st October to prove my innocence. As you may already know, I am wanted for the murder of Alexander Christopher Jones, and for armed robbery. These accusations, whilst true in some sense, are unjust and inaccurate, and my hopes in writing to you is to prove to you that I can in no way be viewed as guilty.
These letters should arrive at Jersey police station sometime around the fourth and fifth of November - if you're reading them now then I should tell you now that searching for me is futile and you won't find me. I have already left Jersey and am at this very minute - that is to say, as I am writing this letter - contemplating whether to move to another state or completely flee the country. You will gather more information simply by reading the letters I have sent - as the accounts I have described are the whole truth and have not been embellished or fabricated in any way - than you would investigating the case further and questioning people who may or may not have known me before this all happened.
First of all, I must beg that you leave my mother alone. She is not responsible for any of this and I would hate to think of her getting bullied into answering a load of ridiculous questions from uneducated police officers while I am not there to protect her.
Secondly, I would appreciate it if you didn't attempt to contact anyone I mention in these letters. None of the names have been altered for privacy purposes; I am trusting you with the names of every single person who has affected my life in the last three months, and I would appreciate it if you would trust me to tell you the truth. Obviously, I cannot know whether you chose to search for the people who played a big part in recent events, but if you simply read to the end of this set of letters you will - hopefully - see that I and everyone in my story is innocent.
Now that the 'terms and conditions' are over with, I can begin to explain just what has been happening and where it all went wrong. Wrong. Truly, I don't know how I feel about that wording; I believe everything started going right for me when I first met Gerard. Before I met him, my life was boring and monotonous and the same thing ever single day. I know you'll have heard this all before: stupid high school kid thinks his life is on a loop and desperately wants change, so he'll throw himself at the first bad influence that comes along if it shakes things up a little.
That's not what happened - not exactly. Gerard wasn't so much a bad influence as a free spirit. Nobody could control what he did - sometimes I didn't even think he could control his actions - and so what the rest of the world saw as 'leading astray' was really Gerard's way of opening up to me. He showed me a little piece of himself each time he supplied me with drugs, and I unraveled another tangle of his confusing personality every time he snuck me into a bar when I was very clearly underage.
I suppose I should tell you how I met him, shouldn't I? This is the bit I dread the most. I will tell you, and you will judge us both because you will read and blame him. You'll think, 'that Gerard was nothing but a dirty pervert who deserves to be locked away' and for that I shall hate you, but I will continue writing to you because I know it's the only way to prove I - we - are guiltless.
Please promise me that you will reserve all judgement until you have read up to the very last sentence on the very last letter I send to you? Please do this for me?
It was a Thursday. I remember that, just like I remember everything about that day; every little detail and snippet of information has been recorded and remembered and stored away in a very special place in my head I use only for special things. Why you ask? Because it was the day I finally started living my life. Before that wonderful, beautiful man, it was like I had been living underwater and when I met him I surfaced. I knew - or I thought I knew - that he would most likely leave me breathless and gasping for air and wishing I had never met him, but the danger was intoxicating. The risk of being with him was addictive and I was an addict for his personality and his quirky traits and sexy half smirk.
It was raining, and I was grumbling because I had missed the bus. I got sick very easily, you see, and I knew if I stayed out in the cold for any longer than absolutely necessary I would most certainly get ill. I hated being ill; there is nothing attractive about being bedridden for weeks and coughing up a lung any time you take a breath to speak, I can assure you.
So, like anybody with a single brain cell in their body, I decided to sit the evening downpour out and wait out the weather under the bus stop. It was small: plastic and uncomfortable and inevitably it got cramped if there were any more than three people waiting there, but it was better than walking home and getting soaked to the skin. It didn't protect me from the chill biting at my nose and ears - I had to brave that out by pulling down my hood even further and pulling up my shirt to cover my face - but it would keep the rain away and for that I was grateful.
Gerard was there. I saw him and I recollect my first thoughts: 'Christ, he's hot', 'does he look gay?' and 'maybe he'd fuck me'. Sorry for the vulgarity of that last one;'you wanted honesty and I'm all for being honest. Especially since I was the "Most Wanted Kiddy-Criminal in Jersey!" Statement courtesy of the local tabloids; their wit and originality never fails to amaze me.
He was perched awkwardly on the too-thin, too-dirty plastic bench that the bus stop provided, scrolling through his phone and smoking a cigarette. While his posture may have been awkward, he had a sense of aloofness that made him stick out like a sore thumb. Jersey wasn't exactly known for it's rich and famous millionaires, and with meeting someone new comes the worries and doubts that that same person will hold you up and threaten you with a pocket knife as you're walking home later that night.
Gerard though... Gerard didn't look dangerous. He did, but not in the way that made you worry for your life. He looked like trouble. He looked like breaking curfews and bending rules and sneaking out of the window. He looked like smoking marijuana in a musty old basement and making love in an old bed with squeaky springs. He looked like awkward conversations with parents overly eager to please, and bitter conversations about it afterwards. He looked dangerous. He looked beautiful.
Of course, I didn't know all of that the first time I saw him. It's so hard to voice your thoughts in a particular moment when you're looking at it in hindsight, don't you agree? It's difficult not to say, "what I should have done," or, "what I later found out," because of course in the moment you don't know any of that. You're only thinking about what's happening right in front of you - you don't have time to procrastinate and analyse every single detail of the encounter until later.
I'm sorry if I go off on tangents. I'm writing what comes to mind in a vain attempt to show you what really happened. The truth, naked and ugly and honest, rather than what everybody seems to think happened.
So back to Gerard, smoking and scrolling and looking awkward and dangerous at the same time. I approached cautiously, and at first he didn't seem to notice me. Like an idiot, I had left my phone at home which was why I couldn't call my mother to come and pick me up in the first place, so there was little for me to do to pass the time except watch the weather for signs of the rain stopping. Well, that or watch Gerard. Being the hormonal teenage boy with a desperate need for change that I was, I chose the latter without hesitation. Silly me, thinking I was being discreet.
He was wearing what later turned out to be one of my favourite shirts on him: a tight black T-Shirt with the logo of some band I'd never heard of emblazoned across his chest. It looked to be a few sizes to small for him and was riding up at the hips, exposing a pale strip of flesh over curvy hipbones as well as accentuating his chest. He looked good, there was no denying that.
He was wearing a pair of baggy jeans that fell down a little around his waist, allowing for more skin to be visible and his large chunky boots added to the outfit to give him more of an edge. His hair was black, evidence of dark brown roots growing through that led me to believe black was not his natural colour - and every few seconds his arm would shoots up and his hand would brush through his hair. A few strands would fall in front of his face though. They always did, and they still do, even now.
While I had been blatantly checking him out, I failed to notice he had put his phone away and was now looking me dead in the eye. I blinked a few times and promptly turned bright red. I was tempted to look away; to glance around at the sky and the floor and the line of traffic running from Bellville all the way to fucking Summit. Anywhere, as long as I was not meeting his intense stare.
But there was something about his eyes that just trapped me there, unable to move, unable to blink, unable to breathe. Slowly, slowly, he smiled with one half of his mouth and brought the cigarette to his mouth. His tongue darted out to wet his lips before settling the poisonous thing in between them, taking a drag painfully slow and never taking his eyes off me. When his cheeks were completely hollowed around the cigarette in his mouth and he could no longer take in any more nicotine, he moved his hand down to hang by his thigh, the cigarette dangling tantalisingly between his middle and index finger. He blew out the smoke into my face in a way that made my eyes water, and I would have guessed he was teasing me. I would have guessed right, as it turned out.
"Hi." He said quietly, his voice too high to be masculine but too low to be feminine. One of his eyebrows was raised slightly and his hip was cocked to the side, one half of his body resting against the structure of the bus stop. It was one word, a simple greeting that nobody else would have taken to heart the way I did, but to me it sounded like a challenge. It sounded like he was daring me to talk to him when it was obvious I was uncomfortable and perhaps even a little in awe of the stranger in front of me.
I coughed, clearing my throat in case my voice betrayed me. When I was sure I wasn't going to humiliate myself if I spoke, I choked out a small, "Hey," and shuffled backwards a little. He watched me with an unwavering gaze, a hint of amusement in his deep, twinkling eyes.
At that point, I didn't know how old he was exactly but it was clear he wasn't a child, or even a teenager. He had a vibe of sophistication that made me self conscious, and I did the only thing I could think of to make myself look... tougher? Was that the look I was going for? I think it was, although I don't think I was thinking straight when I looked at him.
"Can I bum a cigarette?" I asked, deliberately making my voice deeper and rougher than it naturally was so I wouldn't appear juvenile and childlike. I grew up to the knowledge that smoking was bad, and I had always promised myself I would never destroy my lungs with those '"cancer sticks", but here I was, ignoring my morals in the hopes of impressing a boy. Or in this case, a man.
He knew, of course, he always knew, that I had never smoked before. It wasn't hard to figure out honestly, but he didn't say anything about it. He simply shrugged and nodded in one fluent movement, handing my the cigarette he was smoking instead of lighting another one up for me. I weakly attempted to stop the burst of happiness that exploded in my stomach when he did that, telling myself that cigarettes are expensive and he probably just didn't want to run out of them, right?
I took it nervously and just stared at it for a little while, unsure what I was supposed to do. When he tilted his head and widened his eyes at me innocently, just watching, I realised I was supposed to be smoking it. I brought the dreaded thing up to my lips and hesitantly took a puff, regretting it the moment the bitter smoke tried to force its way down my throat. I spluttered and coughed for a good few minutes before I was able to breathe properly again while Gerard looked on and laughed hysterically.
He shook his head at me and held his hand out for the cigarette, which I handed to him, purposefully brushing my fingers against his.
"You're doing it wrong." He informed me, shaking his head in a way that, had it been anyone else, would have seemed condescending to me. With him though, I didn't find it patronising. It seemed like he genuinely wanted to help me smoke. Which was odd, because he didn't know a thing about me, so why would he want to help me?
I feel like I should mention briefly that while I am writing this, Gerard is sitting next to me and down right ordering me to write that he wanted to help because he is, and I quote, "a kind hearted, sexy motherfucker who can spot a keeper from a mile away". I get far too excited when he says I'm a keeper. What can I say? I fell for him hard.
Back to that first rainy evening, and Gerard beckoned for me to come closer, which I did albeit reluctantly. "Open your mouth." He instructed, and I blushed profusely, trying to imagine he was a dentist saying that and not an incredibly attractive potential lover. I parted my lips confusedly while he sucked in the smoke, and then closed his mouth, holding his breath. For a second I had no idea what he was doing, and then when I realised it was far too late to react, and I was far too enthralled with watching him step closer to me and place a cold hand on my warm cheek. He leaned down, bending his neck so his head was at the same level as mine, and then placing his lips on mine. He tentatively transferred the smoke from his mouth to mine, keeping his lips there to stop me from breathing it out and snaking a hand round to the back of my neck to stop me from pulling away.
Unable to move or struggle against him, I squeezed my eyes shut and swallowed down the addictive smoke until I had successfully smoked. Kind of.
Gerard - not that I knew his name at that point - sensed it was alright to move and he stepped back, watching me intently. He seemed to be checking that I was okay with what just happened, and when I made no move to turn and run to the hills, he let a cocky grin sneak onto his face.
"There you go." He smiled at me and I felt weak at the knees at the sight of his dazzlingly white teeth and pink, kissable lips. I wanted to lean in and let what just happened repeat itself over and over again but I didn't have the guts. I just breathed in and out rapidly with an open mouth and a shell-shocked expression which I'm sure was quite hilarious to witness.
"I'm Gerard." He continued, flicking ash onto the ground casually and inspecting his nails like he hadn't just kissed me. The only thing giving him away was the light blush creeping up his visible neck and the way his eyes would dart up to look at me every other second and then look away shyly. When I made no attempt to reply, perfectly content to just stand there in complete and utter shock for the rest of my life, he rolled his eyes dramatically and clucked his tongue,
almost as if he were scolding me for my total lack of social skill. "What's your name?"
"F-Frank." I stuttered. The rain had stopped by then but there was no way I was going anywhere. Not whilst I could hold a conversation with Gerard.
"Well F-Frank." He mocked, gazing at me with overly innocent eyes and an easygoing tone of voice. "What's a kid like you doing out all alone at this time of night?"
Gerard's voice was laced with humour but I couldn't help but bristle at being called "kid". I know I'm short, but it's obvious I'm not a child. It wasn't even that late - half nine at the latest - and I was overwhelmed with the amount of sarcastic, snappy comebacks. I didn't say any of them of
course. Too nervous.
"I'm hardly a kid." I said bitterly, crossing my arms over my chest and neglecting to answer his question. If he was going to be rude to me, I owed him the same courtesy, I decided. Naturally, that resolve didn't last long. Not when I heard his beautiful, tinkling laughter and felt him sidle up closer to me so that his bare arm brushed against mine. My skin tingled where his arm had brushed against me and it was suddenly very hard to breathe. Have you ever had that feeling, detective? Have you ever met an amazing man or woman and decided that was the person you wanted to spend the rest of your life with? I swear to whatever God there is, that's what I felt in that moment. I was being drowned with affection for a man I had met but ten minutes ago, and it frightened me.
"So how old are you, Frankie? Because you look rather young to me." Gerard's eyes raked over my body, and had it been anyone else I would have found myself cringing and wanting to run away from the situation. When it was Gerard though, I wanted him to look. I wanted him to look and like what he saw, and I wanted to put myself on display for Gerard and I wanted to have him watch in awe. So instead of turning away from him in disgust, I leaned in closer to his, looking straight ahead at the busy road as I replied.
"I'm seventeen. Seventeen is old enough, don't you think?"
Without even looking, I could hear the smug smirk in his voice and I remember rolling my eyes at him. "Old enough for what?" He taunted. "What did you have in mind, Frank?"
"How old are you then, Gerard? You don't look too old yourself." He challenged, even though it wasn't strictly true. He didn't look old, but his face had a wise, contemplative look that proved he was older than he appeared to be.
"Age is just a number, Frankie my darling." He laughed, sucking on the cigarette like it was the best damn thing he'd ever tasted, and I frowned at his response. That was not how it was supposed to go. Why would he push me to tell him my age if 'age was just a number' to him?
Please let me repeat, detective, so that I don't mislead you and there is no chance of you interpreting my words in the wrong way, that Gerard was - and still is - stubborn. He's a joker, and a tease and a flirt, but never for one second did he do anything I didn't want him to. If he did, I would have walked away immediately without a backwards glance, but he was polite underneath his brave facade, and he was kind behind his put-on self confidence. No. I stayed because I liked him, and that is all on me. Not him.
"You never answered my question." He pointed out, changing the subject. I wasn't having it though.
"You never answered mine." I replied, biting back the smirk that came with the snappy response.
Gerard chuckled and nodded in defeat, leaning his elbows bad, against the bus stop and thrusting his hips outwards in a provocative manner. I swear I drooled, and he just lapped up the attention. While I was salivating over him, he had started bargaining with me.
"You answer me and I'll answer you?" He asked, letting his tongue trace his lower lip seductively when I nodded breathlessly. "You first Frankie." He said, and when I opened my mouth to object he bit his lip and looked at me through his eyelashes in a way that he knew would make me do anything he wanted.
"I got kicked out of a bar." I admitted, feeling my cheeks flare in embarrassment. "They ID'd me and I left my fake at home, along with my phone. I missed the last bus and I gotta walk."
Gerard nodded in understanding, clucking sympathetically in all the right places as I spewed the tales of my uneventful night to him. I began to think that maybe it would have been better to not have agreed to the deal. Age is just a number anyway, right? Who cared how old he was, if I didn't have to bring attention to how young I was in his eyes again?
"Twenty nine." He finally said without me having to prompt him. He even looked a little guilty to say his age, as if he felt bad for acting the way he did around me when he was over a decade older than me. To tell the truth, I wasn't all that surprised that he was almost thirty. The way he held himself made it clear he wasn't a newly turned adult, and he was still the same man I developed an odd, almost instantaneous crush on.
We were silent for a long time. The rain had started up again, but less of a torrential downpour and more of a gentle shower. The only sounds were the soothing pitter patter of the droplets of water hitting the roof of the shelter and the inhales and exhales of Gerard as he smoked. I didn't know what time it was but it was getting dark and my mother would probably be getting worried, but I didn't want to shatter the peaceful silence we were standing in.
Finally, finally, because I was beginning to worry he'd never ask, Gerard said, "So do you want my number?"
There was an insecure edge to his voice this time, and I could see past all his masks to the naked truth. He was afraid; afraid of rejection, afraid of being unwanted, afraid of being unneeded. And he definitely wasn't any of those, so I did the only logical thing I could think of to do.
I cocked my head and smiled and replied with, "Only if you kiss me again."
I'm afraid I must go now. This is the end of my first letter, and while I am tempted to send each finished letter individually, I suspect you would ignore my requests to wait for the last sentence
of my last letter before making any rash decisions, so it's better I wait.
Thank you for your patience and thank you for reading this. Even if I don't know who you are, I hope you come to the conclusion everybody else does when I tell the, my story: that being Gerard and I are blameless.
Yours sincerely,
Frank Iero.
Notes
So new story on here, yay! Yay?
Please comment or vote if you like it. :)
Enjoy! <3
