Absinthe In Colour Purple *frerard*

20. Violet Fever

"It's done, Frank, we did it!" 

Frank laughed happily and thanked her a million times before hanging up the phone. September was here. As if in a movie, all of the summer descended into a fall. It was evident in Frank's room, scattered papers, notes, scribbled thoughts, everything was on the floor.

He had his own apartment in New York and for a sport, went every week to The Metropolitan Museum. Something exquisite in art, something undefined seemed to devour him in whole, but most importantly, made him feel.

Since his stay in New York, he stopped drinking and doing drugs. The only thing left was himself. His biggest opponent, obstacle, fear.

But with art, meaning writing, he faced everything, the past, the hurt, the trauma that scarred him to the bottom of what was left of his immortality. He wrote obsessively, eloquently, and most important, honestly.

She said she will mail him the copy, first thing tomorrow. He thought about opening a bottle, the best one he had, but decided rather stay sober.

That way he could think about the boy. How he met him the first time. How his first impressions of Gerard were the first impressions of Earth. Confusion, astonishment, vigor, gladness, safety...

Still, that night under the stars, he felt naked, stripped down of his pride. He knew Gerard was attracted to him, of course. The boy acted so appallingly and shy. 

He thought of the first time they kissed, under the trees, after he realized Gerard was really an angel in disguise. Frank even felt embarrassed, an emotion he felt in scarcity.

The first time they slept together. How he had a mission. Make Gerard see. See himself the way Frank could see him. A mission he never truly knew if it succeeded.

He chuckled, those were the moments of purity. 

Damn, he thought if he ever saw him again he would throw himself at his feet and beg for forgiveness. But that was too much to ask. After he deliberately lead him on. Betrayed his trust like that. Threw him away like an old sock.

He wondered about the love of all those grand novels. How they worshipped the human deity. 

In truth, Gerard thought he was an object of lust to Frank. Absolute rubbish. Frank knew Gerard was absolutely sacred. 

When he was in a coma, he knew of him, of emotion and thought that personified Gerard only. And all that was left was purple. Whatever Gerard was made of it had to be holy. Perfection.

He was past the point of being furious with himself for screwing up yet again. But he knew somehow it would get together, the pieces. He was certain he deserved Gerard, not because he was so perfect himself, but because he loved him the best.

***

The sky turned into a vintage color, leaving Frank alone in the hall with a package in hand. He was beaming with excitement, finally, all those weeks paying off.

The Animals were playing in the background, please don't let me be misunderstood...

He tore away the yellow paper and there it was, his very own. Big letters shinning off the cover, Violet Fever by Frank Iero.

The joy he felt was immense, powerful, moving. He jumped up and down for a sheer moment. Then he composed himself and called his agent.

"Listen, Sam, we gotta start promo in Jersey, I have a personal matter there I'd like to attend."

He could see her pinching the bridge of her nose on the other side, "yes, of course, Frank." Happy to oblige, always.

He opened it and there it was the inscription.