Chapter Text
The cemetery was silent, except for the faint sound of pebbles landing. Frank tossed another one and watched it bounce, pretending the echo carried three rows down. The idea of slightly disturbing the dead amused him. If he were in their place, he’d welcome a distraction. How sad. Not the silence. No. Death.
A sharp pain pulled him out of his thoughts. Damn gravel! He quickly brought his finger to his mouth to stop the blood from dripping. He looked down at the red blotch slowly spreading on his notebook. Great. One ruined page for nothing. Not like he was going to be productive today anyway.
He’d already been sitting there for an hour, throwing gravel without even starting a sketch. At least he wouldn’t go home with a blank page. Too bad the assignment wasn’t about contemporary art or some shit, with this mess, he could’ve made up a bunch of nonsense about the passage of time or the rage of a purposeless existence: his own. Boom, easy A. Unfortunately, the topic this semester was architecture. And not just any architecture: funerary architecture. Of course he’d land the gloomiest theme possible. He could’ve been somewhere inside right now, sipping coffee. But no. Here he was, outside in the middle of January, freezing is ass off on a decrepit bench surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of dead people. Perfect Saturday plan. Not depressing at all.
Frank sighed. He was zoning out again. His brain couldn’t seem to stay focused for more than three minutes. He gently blew on his fingers to try to warm them up. His skeleton mittens weren’t enough for this freezing month. He looked around, searching for inspiration. He had picked this bench specifically because of the row of mausoleums across from it. There were five. All different. The only place in the cemetery where that many were still in good condition.
The first two probably belonged to wealthy families, you could still see intact stained-glass windows through the iron gates. On the off chance the sun bothered to show up, the colors would blend on the interior like the pigments on a palette being rinsed. The others were probably long gone from this dead-end. Lucky bastards. Frank had just arrived. Exactly four months ago. Living with his grandmother wasn’t the worst idea he’d ever had. The commute to university let him catch up on the sleep he didn’t get at night, and he had someone to share his long evenings with. All without spending a dime. Seemed like a win, right?
Also, he was glad to have Ray Toro around, one friend who actually got him, who called him up sometimes and didn't make things worse. But that wasn't the same as having his old gang around. He missed the chaos, the noise, the feeling that someone actually wanted him there. This wasn’t how he’d imagined life after high school. No one warned him about the loneliness. Was it like this for everyone? Was there an expiration date after which you’re no longer capable of making friends? Or was it just Frank? Guess he was too unimportant to be worth anyone’s time. Cool. What a pathetic afternoon.
He put in his earphones and let the loud beat of the Mistfits take over. The taste of ink was on his tongue, and his focus drifted in the quiet presence of the monuments. He started sketching loosely, beginning with the roof of the mausoleum on the far left. At the center, a weathered angel stood still, unmoving. He carefully drew its long pleated robe and curls falling over it. He shaded the face, giving it a severe, stern look. As if it was judging Frank. Frank fired the judgment right back, tongue out and all.
While sketching, he caught the detail of a fracture in the angel’s wing. Was that what a fallen angel looked like? An exile punished for disobedience, wings torn during the great fall. What had he done to deserve the harshest punishment? As a kid, when Frank would doze off during mass, his parents would shake him awake, saying laziness led nowhere. He imagined an endless angel meeting where this one had fallen asleep between two hymns. He could relate too damn much. Frank shook his head, chuckling quietly.
“I hope you know it’s pretty weird to laugh alone in the middle of a cemetery. Someone might get the wrong idea,” came a nasal voice, seemingly out of nowhere.
Frank jumped and swore loudly, scrambling to gather his things. All his materials were now scattered across the ground. The contents of his pencil case pathetically spread out over several feet, as if mocking him. This afternoon was a total dead end. And now the stranger had sat next to him. Frank looked up, then scanned the empty benches nearby. Hello? Ever heard of privacy, or is that not in his vocabulary? There were plenty of other seats, far away from Frank’s face.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you had earphones in. Let me help you, hold on.” The newcomer bent down to pick up some markers. “Really, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just… I saw you drawing and got curious. I’ve never seen you around here." A beat passed, the cold air hanging between them. "Oh, right, I’m Gerard. Gerard Way.”
Frank looked up and studied him. He seemed slightly older. Taller too, but that wasn’t hard. He wore an oversized black hoodie with a brown leather jacket far too thin for the season. His eyes landed on the man's face, immediately drawn to his long lashes, then to his small teeth. The round cheeks, flushed red from the cold, softened his features, giving him a girlish look. Black hair fell over his shoulders. Frank grimaced. Looked like he hadn’t washed it in weeks.
“Uh, hey,” Frank mumbled. Gerard didn’t seem mean, but Frank had neither the energy nor the will for small talk. “I gotta go. Thanks for this,” he muttered, motioning vaguely at his scattered things. He was about to get up when Gerard handed him one of his pen.
“You should use this for the details. The other one’ll just make everything too thick, you’ll waste time,” Gerard said with a smile.
Driven by curiosity and with nothing left to lose, Frank reached for the pen. His hand moved deliberately as he carefully traced the delicate edges of the mausoleum, each stroke measured and precise, as if trying to capture its silent story.
“Thanks, man. That looks better.” He smiled. “I’m Frank.”
Gerard smiled back, crooked grin and all, like the kind of guy who always had a cigarette stuck to the corner of his mouth.
A comfortable silence settled between them. The only sounds were the scratch of pen on paper and the faint rustle of leaves. The world seemed to shrink to the edge of Frank’s sketchbook.
Oddly, he was completely absorbed in his work. He didn’t look up for long minutes, as if he’d slipped out of time, lost among the dead. He was inspired, really inspired, for once. After a while, three mausoleums had come to life on the page. “Come to life.” For mausoleums. In a cemetery. Very funny, Frank.
“That was Mathilde,” Gerard suddenly said, pulling Frank from his thoughts. He’d nearly forgotten his benchmate.
“What?”
“No, who. Mathilde. The girl right in front.”
Frank stared at him, puzzled, eyebrows raised. What was he talking about?
“Your drawing,” Gerard said, as if it were obvious. “That’s the name that was written on the plaque. You can barely see it now, look.” He pointed at a small stone on the façade. “1886. That’s crazy.”
Frank blinked, still processing, but Gerard didn’t seem to expect an answer. Before he could even say anything, Gerard leaned over his sketchbook.
“Use a thicker pen here, you’ll get better depth,” he said, pointing at a section.
As Gerard leaned in, his hair swept lightly across Frank’s face. Frank frowned, confused by the sensation. He’d expected Gerard to smell like something familiar, cigarettes, old leather, maybe even a faint hint of fruit. But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Blank. A strange emptiness where scent should have been. Frank blinked, caught off guard by the sudden awareness. What the hell was wrong with him today? Now he was standing here, trying to sniff the air around strangers like some kind of weirdo. He blinked again, forcing himself to shake off the odd distraction and pull his thoughts back into focus.
“Thanks. Wow… she was only twenty. The same age as me. She never even got the chance to really live. That’s so heartbreaking…” Frank said softly.
Gerard shrugged, cleary unbothered. “But you, you’ve had the chance to exist, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, right. Didn’t get into the school I wanted, girlfriend dumped me the second high school ended, my band just broke apart, and now I’m stuck wasting Saturdays on dumb sketches for a class that’s pure bullshit.” Frank stopped, realizing how insane it was to dump his mess on some random stranger. But he couldn’t quit. “You get it, don’t you? What about you?”
“Me?” Gerard tilted his head, as if caught off guard.
“You exist too,” Frank forced a smile.
Gerard’s eyes dropped to his worn-out black Converse, the soles scribbled with careless doodles. Silence stretched between them again.
“You know what terrifies me?” Gerard said suddenly, his tone cold. Frank straightened at the shift.
“What?”
“Are you seriously always surprised by everything?” Gerard smiled again.
“You’re the one who started talking and sat here. Not my fault,” Frank huffed.
“Mmh. Imagine we stopped time, right now. What would you regret?”
“That’s what terrifies you? Regret?” Frank bit his pencil, thinking of last summer. “I guess… that being in love turned into a chore, and that I didn’t try to fix it.”
The last few months tore him apart from the inside, like a goddamn blade twisting deep in his gut. Frank slammed his eyes shut, trying to choke back the heat of tears burning behind them. No way was he gonna let them fall in front of some random stranger. What the fuck was wrong with him? Was he losing his mind? Getting sick? Or just pissed off at everything and everyone?
“You see, that proves it. You exist. You feel things. A lot of things.”
“You a shrink on top of being an artist or what?” Frank shot back. The older on laughed, high-pitched, head thrown back, his small sharp teeth flashing. Frank shivered.
“I think this place is getting to me, that’s all.”
“Yeah, I get it, couple hours here and I’m spilling my guts to the first stranger I meet,” Frank mumbled.
Frank picked up his pencil and started a new sketch, the tip moving over the page stained with his own blood. Minutes passed in silence. A chill ran through him as what little sunlight there was faded behind the clouds. He looked over at Gerard, who was staring at the dark red stain on the notebook before shifting his gaze to the old mausoleum across them, its stone walls fading into the growing dusk. He licked his lips slowly, not looking at Frank, and said:
“Death, at least, is honest.”
“That’s cruel.” Frank stared at him wide-eyed.
“It’s factual. I just think a lot of people are too cowardly to stop.”
Gerard brought a finger to his lips and gently bit it. Frank’s eyes locked on his lips, entranced. He stared a few seconds, then Gerard’s words sank in.
“You realize what you’re saying makes no sense, right? Stop what? You think you’re a coward?”
“I never said that.” He pointed at the drawing. “Hmm, here, do some little lines. Makes the stone look more realistic if you use the color.”
Frank stumbled, the sudden shift in conversation twisting his stomach into knots. A heavy wave of nausea rolled through him, probably hunger, right? Gerard’s voice kept flowing, low and steady, but his wide green eyes didn’t blink, locked onto Frank like some strange, unblinking animal watching its prey. The air thickened around them, dense and strange, as if the world had tilted just enough to throw everything off balance.
“If you died right now, what would you do?”
Frank opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He couldn’t look away; Gerard’s eyes held him in place, hypnotic and cold. The world around them felt warped, sound fading until only the pounding in his ears remained. Then, somewhere distant, a car horn blared. Too loud, too real. Frank flinched, the spell snapping for a split second. His stomach twisted violently. He was definitely going to throw up. He lurched to his feet.
“I’m sorry, I have to go. I’m gonna miss my bus,” he stammered, shoving his things into his backpack.
He started running toward the gate when Gerard’s hand shot out and caught his arm. Frank froze. The grip wasn’t hard, just impossibly cold, the kind of cold that sank straight through fabric and skin. For a second, he couldn’t move. His pulse hammered against the inside of his throat. Every instinct told him to pull away, but something (curiosity, fear, whatever this was) held him still. Gerard’s fingers tightened slightly. He looked down at Frank’s lips, then slowly ran his tongue across his own, never breaking eye contact.
“We should just go for it, you know?”
“What? We?” Frank stammered, vision blurring, mind foggy, eyes glued to Gerard’s lips, completely lost.
“Life, Frank,” Gerard whispered.
For a heartbeat, the word hung between them, too close, too heavy. Frank’s thoughts scattered, replaced by the rush of blood in his ears and the cold pressing against his skin. Then, like a splash of ice water, the moment shattered. He yanked his arm back as if burned and ran without stopping.
On the bus, Frank’s mind was trapped in a loop, Gerard’s words echoing until they blurred together. He wasn’t thinking anymore, just watching the city slide past, headlights flickering across his hands like static.
When he finally got off, the cold hit him like gravity. Every step felt too heavy, too deliberate, as if he were wading through water. His teeth rattled uncontrollably, the rhythm matching the noise in his head. He didn’t even remember crossing the last street, only the warmth of his grandmother’s porch light when he reached it.
He opened the door and went straight to the kitchen, where she waited quietly. The familiar smell of coffee and old wood wrapped around him, grounding and unreal all at once. She turned from the counter, eyes soft, smile patient, like nothing strange had ever existed outside this house.
He didn’t even wait to take off his jacket. The words were already pushing their way out.
“Grandma, I had the strangest conversation today.”
He hesitated, watching her smile gently, silently telling him to keep going. “There was this guy, Gerard Way. I don’t really know him, but he kept asking me all these weird questions. I don’t know... it just felt off, like something was off about the whole thing.”
“You must’ve misheard,” his grandmother chuckled. “It probably wasn’t that name.”
“No, that’s exactly what he said: ‘Gerard Way’. I’m sure. It’s not exactly a common name,” he insisted.
“But my dear Frankie,” she said gently, “young Gerard… He passed away at least ten years ago.” She gave him a worried look. “It must’ve been a joke. Wait, don’t move. I’ve kept all your grandfather’s old newspapers upstairs. You know how he loved collecting them.”
Frank stood frozen. The words didn’t reach him right away; they just echoed in some distant part of his mind. Ten years ago. That couldn’t be right. He stared at the table, at the faint scratches on its surface, focusing on anything that wasn’t her voice.
Upstairs, drawers opened and closed. The muffled sounds barely registered. It felt like he’d been standing there for hours before she came back, a box pressed against her chest.
“January–March 2004” had been hastily written on it, the marker ink smudged across half the label. She dug through it and pulled out a crumpled newspaper.
“Ah, here it is,” she said, flipping to a page near the end of the book. “I remember now, your grandfather and I went to the church, then over to the cemetery. He was the son of the woman who ran that little grocery store next to the town hall. You know the one? Such a sweet boy, though quiet. Always had a pencil in his hand, sketching away,” she said with a soft, nostalgic smile. Then her voice dropped a little, more gentle than sad. “Life has a way of being cruel sometimes.”
Frank stepped closer to the table where the paper was laid out. His eyes scanned the page, then froze in place. A chill ran through him. Nausea surged again.
There, in stark black and white, Gerard’s wide eyes seemed to hold something Frank couldn’t quite place, something that tugged at him quietly, beneath the surface. Just like earlier on the bench, his small, sharp teeth caught his attention for a moment, but it was the way Gerard’s long black hair fell over one side of his face that lingered in his mind. Frank’s gaze returned to the photo again and again, his heart beating a little faster. There was an unfamiliar pull, soft and uncertain, something both intriguing and unsettling. And suddenly, it all crashed down, leaving him sinking to the kitchen floor, breath shallow, mind spinning.
« Mr. and Mrs. Way,
his parents,
Mr. and Mrs. Rush,
his grandparents,
and the whole family are deeply saddened to announce the passing of
Gerard Arthur Way, on March 15, at the age of 26.
The viewing will take place on Wednesday, March 18 at Christ Church.
A religious ceremony will follow the same day.
Burial will take place at the communal cemetery.
A donation for the Mental Health Support Association will be held at the end of the service. »