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CHAPTER ONE Birmingham is for lovers
Frank’s POV
The day was a bitterly cold December one in Birmingham, the kind that cuts through coats and chills to the bone. I found myself marooned in Mr. Way’s art class, a place I had no desire to be. Art held little charm for me, though my dear mother, ever the dreamer, had her heart set on her son becoming an artist. And so, here I was, dutifully enduring the ordeal for her sake. Yet, truth be told, the art itself wasn’t the worst of it. No, the true torment lay in Mr. Way. The man was devilishly handsome, his alabaster skin striking a stark contrast against his raven-black hair. Always impeccably dressed, he favored dark suits, often paired with a crimson tie or one in classic black and white. Though I was no boy, being merely five years younger than Gerard (I have resumed my studies after the war), my slight stature and slender frame lent me an air of youthfulness. Yet, despite knowing Gerard’s true age, I could scarcely believe he was thirty. Surely, he seemed nearer to my age, his features possessing a timeless quality.I endeavored to fix my attention upon his words, though it was no small feat, for my thoughts had wandered into a realm of forbidden fancy, imagining what liberties my art instructor might take were he not bound by the propriety of his station. Then, as if seized by a sudden affliction, my breath caught in my chest. Surely, I saw Mr. Way's eyes fixed upon me—no, not merely looking, but gazing with intent straight into my own. And yet, as though he were startled by the weight of my attention, he swiftly turned his focus elsewhere, feigning nonchalance."It’s happenstance, nothing more," I told myself, attempting to still the storm within. "A simple coincidence. Pull yourself together, Iero—compose yourself." Yet, for all my efforts to regain composure, it became nigh impossible to discern a single word of what Mr. Way was saying. My thoughts were wholly ensnared.Mr. Way's art classroom was a curious mix of solemnity and creative chaos, tucked away in the upper corridors of the school building. The high ceilings, adorned with ornate plaster molding, lent an air of quiet dignity to the space, while the large, arched windows allowed the gray December light to spill across the room in pale beams. The scent of turpentine and linseed oil lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the musty aroma of aged wood.Easel stands were scattered about the room, each bearing a canvas in varying states of completion—some merely broad strokes of paint, others intricate masterpieces in the making. The walls were lined with shelves crammed with jars of brushes, tins of charcoal, and stacks of sketch pads. A few small statues of classical figures perched precariously on a narrow shelf, their chipped edges whispering of years of service as models for aspiring artists.At the front of the room stood a grand oak desk, polished to a soft sheen but perpetually cluttered with papers, tubes of paint, and a collection of fountain pens. Behind it, a blackboard bore the ghostly remnants of past lessons, faint sketches and notes in white chalk hinting at topics of Impressionism and color theory.The light fixture above, an elaborate wrought-iron chandelier, flickered occasionally, casting shadows that danced across the faces of the students seated at wooden benches. Beneath their feet, the floor bore the scars of countless years of creative endeavor—paint splatters, deep gouges, and the occasional scuff from restless shoes.It was a room that seemed alive with the echoes of artistic ambition, filled with the quiet hum of inspiration and the occasional sharp snap of Mr. Way’s voice, commanding order amidst the disorder.“Mr. Iero!” barked Mr. Way’s voice, sharp as a whip.I jolted upright. “Yes? I—terribly sorry, sir. I didn’t realize you were speaking to me.”“It’s the third time I’ve asked, young man,” Mr. Way replied, his tone cool. “Who painted the Rouen Cathedral series?”I hesitated, a flicker of panic certainly manifesting on my face. It had to be one of those French fellows—Manet or Monet. Which one, though? Taking a stab in the dark, I ventured, “Édouard Manet?”“Wrong,” came the curt response. “You’ll remain after class.”That was all I needed to hear. I merely nodded, resigning myself to my fate, though my thoughts had already drifted—away from art, away from the classroom, and toward the unsettling desires that Mr. Way’s presence stirred in me.The lesson concluded soon after, and the clamor of departing students filled the hallways. Within moments, the room was silent, save for the faint rustle of papers as Mr. Way remained behind with me.“Well then,” Mr. Way began, his voice low, almost conversational, “why aren’t you paying attention in my class? What on earth could be so absorbing that you cannot focus for a single hour?”“Nothing, sir,” I replied quickly, my words tumbling over themselves. “I swear I’ll do better next time.” I stepped back, aiming for the door, but before I could take another stride, Mr. Way’s hand closed around my wrist.“Where do you think you’re going?” the man asked, his tone gentle but firm, his grip unmoving. “You’re not leaving this room until you tell me what has your thoughts so thoroughly tangled. What is it that steals your attention away from me?”I faltered, the air suddenly thick around me. My breath quickened, and I averted my gaze, my cheeks warming. “I was just thinking about… uh…” I trailed off, my words caught in my throat. All I could feel was the heat of Mr. Way’s hand against my wrist.“Why the sudden nerves?” Gerard questioned, his dark eyes gleaming with something unspoken. “Is it my touch that rattles you so?” His lips curled into a sly smile.“No, it’s not that,” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. “But I would prefer if you didn’t hold my fucking hand.”Mr. Way only grinned wider. He stepped closer, so near that our breaths mingled in the space between us. My pulse hammered in my chest.“Mind your manners,” Gerard chided softly, his voice a silken thread. With his free hand, he tilted my chin upward, forcing our eyes to meet. “Now, tell me, darling—what is it about me that unsettles you so? Is it my proximity? My presence? Or something else entirely?”I swallowed hard, my voice trembling as I admitted, “Yes, Mr. Way… It’s you. You affect me so profoundly. I apologise. This will never happen again”“Why did I say it? Why the fuck did I say it?” I scolded myself in my head."Me? Oh, darling. You have no idea… The effect you have on me. So, tell me—was it me you were thinking about during class today, my dear?"“What is happening? What is going on?!” I thought. It seemed like there was no escape now, so why wouldn’t I just be honest."Yes... About you." I said faintly."Ah, sweetheart... If we weren’t here on the university campus right now, I would do unspeakable things to you. I have seen you looking at me all year. Open your mouth.”My heart started beating so fast, that I was sure it was going to jump out from my chest. However, I obeyed. I just couldn’t say no to him. It seemed fairly impossible to me. I felt Gerard’s finger on my lips, then inside my mouth. He started slowly, but pushed it deeper. I almost gagged.“Good boy” Way said. I felt fingers from his other hand pushing inside my thighs.“Fuck.” I mumbled. Suddenly, there was a knock at the classroom door."Blast," Gerard muttered under his breath. "Act like nothing's happened."It was simply a student from one of Gerard’s other classes, returning an assignment. After the student left, Gerard turned to me with a slightly amused expression."You’ve certainly got my attention now," he said, his tone softened, as though the fire beneath his words had given way to a smoldering warmth. “Would you care to accompany me home tonight?”At that moment, the eternal battle between guilt and desire began. The devil and God were raging inside me. Never before had I been with a man, and yet it felt so terribly wrong. My mind immediately turned to Gabrielle, my dear fiancée, who had so bravely volunteered as a nurse in France. The hospital where she worked had been bombed to the ground, and none had survived. Her death came as a staggering shock to me, but it also brought with it a dreadful realization — I had never truly desired her.Did I love her? Of course, I did. With a deep and tender affection, I loved her. But it was more akin to the kind of love one might feel for a sister. And therein lay the reason we had never consummated our relationship. From her side, however, I knew it was purely romantic, as passionate as a summer’s day. I had told her we should wait until marriage, citing my religious upbringing as the cause, hoping that in time, I would find myself attracted to her body. But after her passing, a new thought emerged — a realization that chilled me to my very bones. I had never been able to feel any true attraction to a woman. But men… men, on the other hand…Gabrielle and I had become engaged, not by passion, but by circumstance. She had been my dearest friend since childhood, and our families had shared a bond of deep respect and mutual admiration. When we both reached twenty, our mothers grew concerned that neither of us was married yet. I would be lying if I said it wasn’t an arranged engagement of sorts.I had never explored my own desires as a teenager, but by the time I was twenty-one, shortly after the engagement, an unfamiliar hunger began to stir within me. I found myself dreaming of Victor — Victor Fuentes, a fellow from university. A handsome lad, with olive-toned skin, dark, wavy hair, and those brown eyes, wide and inviting. When the desire had passed, guilt poured over me, much like now, when Gerard first touched me. I wiped away the evidence, a single tear slipping from my eye. In that moment, I realized that Victor was not the first man I had ever desired. No, my first inkling of such longing went back much further, to my primary school days. There had been a boy — Geoffrey Rickly. He was tall, with an angelic face and golden hair that shone like sunlight.
At the time, I hadn’t known what to call the feelings I had for him. But the moment I lied in my bed, thinking of Victor, I knew instantly. It was the same yearning. A yearning I should have felt for Gabrielle.I had always felt guilty for not returning her love the way she had wanted but was incapable
of feeling that yearning for women. I had come to accept it, though begrudgingly. It was only now, when I first felt Gerard’s touch on me, that I fully understood. This was who I was, and the truth echoed through my mind: The love that dare not speak its nameI faltered, my words catching in my throat. “But Mr. Way…”“Gerard," he interjected gently. "When we’re alone, call me Gerard.”“I’m… untouched,” I stammered, my cheeks aflame with the admission.“That choice is yours,” he assured me, his voice a soothing balm. “But I promise, you’ve nothing to fear. I’ll take the utmost care.”With a slight, hesitant nod, I acquiesced. “Then yes. I will.”Gerard’s lips curled into a smile, warm and knowing, as we exited the classroom together.“My Bentley is just around the corner,” I offered tentatively. “If it suits you, Gerard, I could drive us there. It would allow me to leave unnoticed in the early morning—surely discretion is what we both desire?”“A Bentley, you say?” His brows arched slightly, though his amusement was good-natured. “Ah, a 1919 model, no doubt? As it happens, I have the very same. You may park yours on the drive; I’ll tuck mine away in the garage. That way, it will appear as though I am the house’s sole occupant. A fortuitous arrangement, wouldn’t you agree? I walked here this morning—an anomaly for me, but one that now seems serendipitous.”I couldn’t help but smile as Gerard’s words warmed the air between us. Together, we made our way to my Bentley, taking care that no one was present to observe.“Gerard,” I said softly as I opened the passenger door for him, “promise me you’ll not walk again in such bitter cold. You could fall ill.”He chuckled as he seated himself. “Ironically, I took that walk for the sake of my health. But let us not dwell on that. Drive on, Frank—I’ll guide you the way.”—-
After some time, we arrived at Gerard’s residence, a grand and venerable home that bore the dignity of age. The floors were polished wood, adorned with Persian rugs of intricate design, and the walls, like a gallery, displayed an abundance of paintings, each a testament to artistry and sentiment. It was what it seemed like a two-story home.“May I offer you a drink?” Gerard inquired, his tone hospitable.“A whiskey, if you please,” I replied, my voice steady though my nerves hummed. “With ice—and make it a double.”“A double, you say, eh?” Gerard responded with a faint chuckle. “As you wish, sweetheart.” He prepared two glasses, identical in their measure, and handed one to me before leading me upstairs. As we ascended, a portrait affixed to the stairway wall drew my attention. The subject, a woman of ethereal beauty, captured in oils, exuded both grace and melancholy.“Who is she, if I might ask?” I ventured, my voice laced with curiosity.Gerard paused, his steps faltering momentarily. A shadow crossed his face. ”She was my wife,” he said quietly. “She passed away in childbirth. Our son… he didn’t survive either.”My heart ached at the revelation. “I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I hadn’t intended to stir such sorrowful memories.”“No need for apologies, Frank,” Gerard replied, his composure returning. “You’ve every right to know such truths about me.”The stairs led to a long hallway, with some more paintings on the walls. There were three pairs of large doors on each wall.Gerard opened the last door on the left and we entered the master chamber, a grand and spacious room. Its vast windows invited soft moonlight to stream through, illuminating a stately double bed set at the heart of the room, framed by a luxurious dark green sofa positioned against the wall. A well-kept closet stood to one side, its polished wood gleaming faintly in the low light. Gerard took his place on the sofa, gesturing for me to join him by patting the seat beside him. With a soft clink, he handed the me a glass of whiskey, his gaze meeting mine with an intensity that seemed to fill the room.“Now, if you’ll indulge me,” Gerard began, his tone measured but warm, “I’d like to pose a personal question.”“Go ahead, Gerard,” I replied, though uncertainty lingered in my voice as I shifted slightly.“Why haven’t you married yet?” Gerard asked gently. “You’re a striking young man, from a respectable family. Of course, you don’t have to answer if you’d rather not, but it’s something I’d dearly like to understand.”I hesitated, my expression clouded with thought. “Well,” I began, pausing as though to find the right words, “I was meant to marry after the war. But… my fiancée never returned. She was a nurse in France—Gabrielle Saporta. Perhaps you knew her? She spoke highly of your classes, Gerard. She admired you.”A shadow crossed Gerard’s face, and he looked at me with profound sympathy. “Gabrielle,” he echoed, his voice quiet. “Yes, I remember her. Such a bright and capable woman. Her loss was a tragedy. I’m so sorry, darling. Are you managing? I understand if it’s too painful to discuss.”I exhaled deeply, my gaze fixed on the glass. “I’d prefer not to dwell on it,” I admitted softly. “It still weighs on me. But I will say this… I don’t think of her so often anymore. Not since…”“Since?” Gerard prompted, leaning in slightly.“Since I saw you, Gerard,” I murmured, my cheeks warming as I allowed the truth to escape my lips.A faint smile touched Gerard’s features. “Another whiskey?” he offered, his tone casual but his expression betraying a spark of something deeper.“Sure,” I replied with a nod, eager for the fortitude another glass might provide.Gerard poured us both another double, and we drank in companionable silence for a moment. Then, setting his glass down, Gerard leaned closer, his voice low and filled with a quiet reverence.“My God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered. “May I kiss you?”I said nothing. Instead I kissed my teacher, shyly in the beginning, but soon pushed my tongue inside his mouth. “You taste so good, Gerard.”“I’ve just kissed my teacher,” I thought. There was a strange feeling to it. It felt wrong, but tasted so good.The forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest, doesn’t it? That kiss—soft, electric, and utterly forbidden—had left a mark on me I couldn’t shake. My head swam with thoughts, questions swirling like smoke in the aftermath of a fire.
“Should I be doing this? Where will it lead? Will there be consequences?”
The answers were elusive, but one feeling was clear as day: I was standing on the edge of something dangerous. Something that would demand a price.I couldn’t shake the sense that I was going to pay for this, one way or another. Forbidden things always come with a cost, don’t they? And yet, even knowing this, I couldn’t bring myself to regret it. Not only did I kiss my teacher, but also I kissed a man. I’ve never done it before. It felt so wrong at so right at the same time. Despite any doubts I felt I wanted more. I needed more. At the moment it felt just as vital for my existence as breathing or drinking water. The point of no return.Gerard stood up and took me by the hand, leading me bed, then laid me down. Slowly, he started touching me more, first my chest, then my stomach, finally reaching my thighs. My breathing became faster as the pale, black haired man proceeded touching me.“May I?” The man asked, his hand between my legs.“God, yes, please!”“You’re already hard for me, love”I flustered hearing those words. “Is that how it should be?” I asked playfully.“That is exactly as it should be, beautiful.” Gerard slowly unbuttoned his shirt, then his pants, then ripped my clothes, stripping me completely.“God, birdie, your body is amazing.”I blushed. His touch felt like pure bliss, nothing I’ve ever felt before. I shivered when I felt his soft lips on my nipples. A small moan escaped me. Gerard only looked at me and smiled softly."Is it quite alright if I prep you now, birdie? I'll take great care, I assure you."I gave a slight nod in reply, my heart steady but eager. I pushed away the feeling that what we were doing was wrong in any way. At that moment, Gerard’s touch was the only thing that mattered. His touch, his voice, his smell. I was a mess. Already sweaty, my breath heavy. I wanted him more than I have ever wanted anything in this world."I need to hear it from you, Frank. I must be sure this is truly your desire," he said, his tone
gentle but firm."Yes, Gerard, please. Do it—I need you to," I answered, my voice resolute yet trembling with anticipation."Turn about, darling," he murmured softly.I obeyed, turning as he bade, my breath catching as I awaited his next move. Gerard licked me between my cheeks.“God, Gerard, it feels so good. Please don’t stop.”Gerard continued working his tongue and after a while, he added one finger. He slowly pushed it inside my hole. It was a strange feeling. Strange, but pleasant, really. He started really slow, only for his moves to become faster after a while. His fingers were experienced, I could feel that in his every move.We made out for a while more, after which Gerard asked “Do you want me now? Inside you? Because my body is aching for you. I’ll be as cautious as I can. I will also understand if you’re not ready yet.”“I want you, too. I need you inside me. I am only a bit worried because you’re rather… big.”Gerard chuckled. “I’ll take this as a complement. I promise not to hurt you.”The man pushed his cock into my body, being as careful as only possible. “Is that right, sweetheart? Does it hurt or does it feel good?”“Don’t stop!” I moaned. “It’s perfect.”Soon after, Gerard finished inside me. He hugged me and put his hand in my hair.“It was great, Gerard. Almost didn’t hurt at all. I didn’t come, but I know it was only my first time. It was fantastic nonetheless.”“We will work on that, birdie.” Gerard said with a smile.We smoked a cigarette each. Soon after that we both fell asleep holding each other.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
CHAPTER 2 Become what you hate
Frank’s POV
I stirred early that morning, the first hints of dawn casting faint light through the curtains. My heart weighed heavy with the knowledge that my departure from Gerard’s home was necessary, though every fiber of my being wished to remain. The delicate balance of our affections and the discretion demanded by society left no room for indulgence.I leaned gently toward Gerard, who was still half-asleep, his tousled hair framing a face of ethereal beauty.“Gerard, love, I must leave now,” I said, my voice soft with regret. “I wish I could linger here, but I can’t risk the whispers. You understand, don’t you?”Gerard’s hazel eyes fluttered open, his expression a mix of reluctance and acceptance. “I don’t want you to go, Frank, but I won’t have rumors tarnish us either. Go on, then, darling. I’ll see you in class.”I pressed a tender kiss to Gerard’s lips in farewell and made my way to the car. As I approached, a figure on the sidewalk caught my eye. For a fleeting moment, I was certain I recognized the man, though the dim pre-dawn light obscured his features. My pulse quickened with uncertainty. The only sensible course was to slip into my car and hope he was not some acquaintance from the university. And so, I did just that—sliding into the driver’s seat of my Bentley and steering it towards my townhouse. Compared to Gerard’s grand residence, mine was modest, but I harbored no complaints. It was still a fine abode, particularly for one living alone. A charming two-storied brick house, it boasted a cosy sitting room, a kitchen, and a guest chamber on the lower floor, with two bedrooms and a single bath above. I had inherited the home from my dear grandmother, a stroke of fortune that spared me the ordeal of remaining under my mother’s roof. No more prying questions about my nocturnal absences or judgmental glances over breakfast tea. Once inside, I indulged in a warm shower, the steam curling around me like a gentle embrace. Clad in my nightclothes, I sank onto my bed, thoughts of Gerard swirling like autumn leaves in my mind. His soft lips, his alabaster skin, his soulful hazel eyes—they were etched into my memory. The faint, intoxicating trace of his cologne still lingered, a phantom presence that made my heart ache with longing. He was perfect in every way, save for one glaring truth—he was my teacher. Yet the horizon glimmered with hope. With graduation nearly upon us, soon, the constraints of propriety would fall away. The day was near when we could bask in each other’s company, unbothered by wagging tongues or whispering gossips. We would still have to be careful, as two men holding hands in public were not a desired view. It hurt me and I did not understand why could’t love be celebrated in every shape it comes? But there was nothing I could do about it, but hope it would change with the passage of time. A future with Gerard seemed inevitable, and I clung to the thought like a sailor to a lifeline. I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him. The rest of the day, before heading to class, was clouded by thoughts of Gerard and my desire to feel his touch again. The lecture was a blur, though I hardly absorbed a word. My mind was a tempest, replaying the tender chaos of the previous night. I fought to keep my gaze fixed on my notebook, yet my eyes betrayed me, flitting now and again to Gerard. His composed exterior belied the storm within, though his fleeting, barely-there smiles told me he was as shaken as I. "Mr. Iero," Gerard's voice broke through the din of my thoughts, steady and measured. "Please remain after class. I’d like to discuss your diploma. The rest of you are dismissed." The room emptied in a slow shuffle of murmurs and scraping chairs. My heart thudded loudly in my chest as the last student departed, leaving the two of us alone in the echoing quiet. "God, I’ve missed you so much," Gerard breathed the moment the door swung shut. His voice carried a raw, yearning edge that sent a thrill down my spine. He leaned against the door, pushing it as close to closed as he dared, though the absence of a lock weighed on us both. Before I could answer, he closed the space between us and kissed me. It was urgent, consuming, as though he could pour all his longing into that one act. "I’ve missed you too, Gerard," I whispered when we finally broke apart, both of us gasping. My hands clung to his black vest as though he might vanish. "So incredibly much." For a moment, the world outside the small classroom ceased to exist. There was only us—the shared heat, the desperate pull of connection. The risks, the whispers, the consequences—they all seemed distant shadows compared to the brilliance of what we felt in that moment. Gerard put his hand on my inner thigh.“Oh God, that feels so good”“I can’t hold myself from touching you, Frank.”He kept touching my thighs, until he reached my sweet spot. I moaned as Gerard put his hand in my pants.Then it struck me again, sharp and clear. The taste of forbidden fruit lingered, its allure impossible to resist. Feelings churned in contradiction, a tempest of right and wrong. It shouldn’t have happened—of that much, there was no doubt. Yet, it was everything desired, stirring something deep and unspoken. The pull was irresistible, the craving undeniable. To savor it, to indulge in its sweetness while it lasted, felt like the only choice. To drink deeply from this cup until no more could be taken, no matter the cost. “God, Gerard, please don’t stop”. Suddenly, the door creaked open, shattering the fragile moment between us. Gerard’s hand fell away from me as though burned, and his breath hitched in panic. His eyes darted to the doorway, where a figure now stood framed by the dim hallway light. "You might’ve thought to knock," Gerard said, striving for an air of casual annoyance though his voice trembled slightly. "I didn’t expect you’d have company," came the reply, followed by a low, amused chuckle. Bert McCracken leaned against the doorframe, his disheveled dark brown hair falling in loose waves about his face. A faint shadow of stubble clung to his jaw, and his piercing blue eyes, always rimmed with dark circles as if sleep evaded him perpetually, held a mischievous glint. Bert was a music professor—and Gerard’s former lover. Their history, as Gerard had confided during the drive to his home last night, was fraught with bitter memories. Despite this, their professional lives remained entangled, both being jointly responsible for orchestrating the teaching curriculum. "We were discussing his diploma," Gerard said smoothly, though the slight flush rising to his cheeks betrayed him. "Of course," Bert replied with a knowing grin, his gaze lingering a moment too long. "In that case, I’ll leave you to it. I need to talk program details with you later, Way." He turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor without another word. As the door clicked shut, I exhaled shakily. "I hope he didn’t see anything. The last thing I want is for you to face trouble, Gee. I think I’d better leave. This shouldn’t have happened, and I’m sorry." Gerard shook his head, his expression softening. "Darling, this is on me. I should’ve known better than to risk it here. Please, come to my house tonight. I need to see you again." "I need to see you too, Gee," I admitted, my voice low but fervent. "But we must tread more carefully. I’ll come tonight, though." With a final lingering kiss, I left the classroom. My thoughts churned as I made my way home, the morning’s mystery man and Bert’s unexpected appearance crowding my mind. A disquieting suspicion arose—that the man on the sidewalk and Professor McCracken were one and the same. I fervently hoped I was mistaken, and that Bert remained unaware of our secret. Once home, I resolved to distract myself with preparation for the evening. From my wardrobe, I selected my favorite shirt—a simple yet elegant beige piece adorned with rose-shaped buttons crafted from the finest silk. I paired it with wide-legged black trousers, suspenders, and polished black shoes. Donning my coat and a rakish fedora, I climbed into my car and set off towards Gerard’s house, anticipation thrumming through me despite the shadow of unease lingering at the edges of my thoughts."I'm so glad you're here, birdie," Gerard said, his voice warm as he opened the door, his hazel eyes lighting up at the sight of me. "I'm glad to be here too," I replied, a soft smile playing on my lips. "Shall I fix you a drink?" he asked, stepping aside to let me in. "Just a whiskey for me, like last night," I said with a quiet chuckle, shrugging off my coat and hanging it on the nearby rack. Gerard nodded with a grin and disappeared briefly, returning with two glasses. We settled onto the leather couch in the grand living room. It was a spacious, inviting space, with large windows offering sweeping views on either side of the house. Across from us was another couch, perfectly matched, separated by a rich, intricately woven carpet that anchored the room. Every wall was lined with towering shelves brimming with books, the spines forming a tapestry of colors and stories. I sat close beside him, my drink cradled in my hands. "You look stunning, birdie," he said, his voice low and reverent, his gaze raking over me. "You're just... perfect. God, how did I get so lucky?" His words sent a flush creeping up my neck, and I couldn’t help but smile. The intensity of his admiration was as overwhelming as it was thrilling. “Thank you, Gee” I said, put away my glass and kissed him. Gerard, quickly as though he had no time to lose, unbuttoned my shirt and started sucking on my nipples hungrily, which must have been one of the best things I’d ever felt. I couldn’t help moans escaping my lips, with each of them Gerard looking at me and smiling.Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. I barely managed to button my shirt before Gerard opened the door, his jaw tightening as Bert McCracken sauntered inside uninvited. “What the hell do you want, McCracken?” Gerard snapped, his voice low and sharp. “We already hashed everything out at the campus today.” “Well, Gee,” Bert drawled with a sly grin, his tone dripping with mockery, “I happened to see your little bird flying away from your house this morning. And then I caught sight of the two of you playing teacher and student in the classroom. Imagine my surprise when I recognized that Bentley parked outside your house. You see, it is slightly different than yours. I once caught myself admiring it’s beautiful seats, they’re coated in such a pretty fabric. Frank’s seats look different. I’d assume you were better in paying attention to details, Gerard. And well, I thought, if you’re enjoying yourself, why shouldn’t I have a bit of fun too?” Gerard’s fists clenched at his sides. “First, why were you even here this morning? And second, what the hell do you mean by that?” Bert leaned casually against the doorframe, his grin widening. “Funny you should ask. Turns out, I’ve recently moved into the neighborhood. My dear old aunt passed away, and I inherited her house. We’re neighbors now, Gee.” His tone grew darker, his grin sharper. “And as for the second point... I want him too. Your little bird is far too delightful to keep all to yourself. I won’t lie—he’s caught my eye as well.” “You’re not getting him, McCracken. He’s mine,” Gerard growled, his hazel eyes flashing with fury. “Oh, really?” Bert tilted his head mockingly. “In that case, I’ll just have to remind you of your delicate position. People already whisper about you, Gerard. About that poor Scottish girl who died in France. Everyone remembers how you were seen kissing her in the classroom before her untimely end. Sure, you denied it all, but rumors stick and people talk, Gee. If I were to tell anyone about this—about you and your little student—well, I’m sure the scandal would spread like wildfire.” I swallowed hard at the mention of Gerard kissing any other students, but said nothing. I’ve heard of it from someone a long time ago and refused to believe it, the disbelief mostly caused by my jealousy. If the right time comes, I’d ask him about it. Now, there were more important things.Gerard paled but held his ground. Before he could respond, I stepped forward, my voice trembling but steady enough. “Do I really have to do this?” I asked, dreading the answer. Bert’s icy gaze turned to me, his smile sickeningly sweet. “Oh, my dear Frank, I think you know the answer. If you want to keep your precious Gerard safe and sound, you’ll do exactly as I say.” Tears prickled at the corners of my eyes as I glanced at Gerard. “Gee, love, please don’t be mad at me. I’ll do it—for us.” Gerard’s expression softened, though his fists were still clenched. “I won’t be angry, birdie. If it’s the only way to protect us both, then do it. But,” he turned to Bert, his voice venomous, “you don’t hurt him. Not a single bruise, McCracken. And give me your damn address—I want to know where he is.” Bert smirked. “Cromwell Road 7. But don’t worry, Way, your darling will be safe and sound with me.” I kissed Gerard one last time, feeling his trembling hands on my back as he whispered, “I’ll fix this. I promise.” Then, I left with Bert, trying to stifle the rising dread in my chest. It was only yesterday that I lost my innocence and now I was to give myself to someone I have never even talked with. I was merely a blackmail tool. I felt sick thinking of it. What was pushing me through was the thought I was doing it for Gerard. I felt as if I was insane. Until yesterday, I had never talked with Gerard outside classroom, let alone have him take me, and yet I was ready to give my life for him.The drive was quiet and tense, taking longer than expected. Bert had claimed to live nearby, but twenty-five minutes later, it was clear we weren’t headed to Cromwell Road. My stomach twisted as the car slowed in front of a looming house. “Bert?” I asked, my voice shaky. “Yes, love?” he replied, his tone mockingly tender. “Don’t you dare call me that,” I snapped, my fear giving way to anger. “Oh, so feisty. Alright then, Frank. Whatever you like—as long as you behave.” I looked around, my heart hammering. “Why are we at the Shelbys’ house?” “Don’t worry your pretty little head,” Bert said with a chuckle, pulling a gun from his jacket and pressing it to my side. “You’re perfectly safe with me. You’re a valuable asset, after all.” The Shelbys. Everyone in Birmingham knew the name, and everyone feared it. A gang, a family, a shadow over the city. My mother had warned me to stay far away from Watery Lane, and yet here I was, standing at number six, my legs trembling as Bert guided me inside. The room was dimly lit, the air thick with smoke. Three figures sat waiting. One was a man with a sharp moustache—Arthur, I guessed. Another was younger, his chiseled cheekbones and piercing blue eyes unmistakable. Tommy Shelby himself. And finally, there was a woman with dark, curled hair, her green dress elegant yet intimidating. Polly. “He seems suitable,” Polly said, her eyes scanning me critically. “But we’ll need to be sure.” I swallowed hard. “F-Frank,” I stammered when her gaze demanded my name. “Relax, love. You’re safe here,” she said with a small, almost motherly smile. “Now be a good boy and take off that lovely silk shirt of yours.”
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Chapter 3 Into the blinding light Gerard ’ s POV As the door closed behind McCracken and Frank, a storm of thoughts churned in my mind. Had I just made the gravest mistake of my life? Letting Frankie go with that manipulative bastard felt like cutting out my own heart. What if he hurt him? Bert could be sadistic; I’d seen glimpses of it in the past. But what terrified me even more was the possibility of betrayal—what if he told everyone about us anyway? But Frankie… Frankie was different. This wasn’t a mistake, and I hated myself for putting him in danger. “It’s all your fault, you idiot,” I muttered under my breath, pacing the living room. The weight of my choices pressed heavily on me. Should I follow them? Confront Bert? My hesitation made me feel weak. I paced restlessly around the room, the weight of my own guilt pressing down on me like an unforgiving storm. I felt as if I were drowning in it, suffocating under its oppressive hand. Guilt had become an old companion, one I had known all too well. My mother, a devout Catholic, had made sure of that. She’d drilled it into me from an early age—my brother and I were to confess every transgression, no matter how small, whether it was breaking a plate or speaking out of turn at the table. In some ways, I had grown too familiar with it, yet I never quite learned how to carry it properly. It had been the cornerstone of my childhood, yet it always seemed to swallow me whole, leaving me lost and unsettled.I poured myself a generous double, hoping to quiet the whirlwind of thoughts churning in my mind. But the liquor did nothing but deepen the turmoil within."Have I just made the worst mistake of my life?" The thought clawed at my brain, relentless. "Have I lost Frankie forever? I shouldn’t have let him go with that bastard. You’re a damned fool, Gerard. Why do I always screw everything up? I’m nothing but a weak coward who can’t stand up for himself, or for those I love." “Fuck it,” I said aloud, grabbing my coat and car keys. I had enough to live comfortably for the rest of my life, thanks to careful investments and family inheritance. Losing my job would only hurt me because teaching was my passion. Watching my students grow, inspiring them, and guiding them through their studies gave my life meaning. The thought of being barred from the classroom was a pain I could hardly bear. But Frank was my priority now.I stormed into the garage and slid into my car, only for the engine to sputter and die. “Come on!” I yelled, slamming my fists against the steering wheel. But the damned thing wouldn’t start. The cold—minus 15 degrees Celsius—had likely frozen the engine solid.After fifteen minutes of fruitless effort, I gave up, tears of frustration stinging my eyes. I stomped back inside, defeated. The thermometer mocked me as I passed it. I poured myself another double. “From the razor to the rosary… Or, from the bottle, in my case.” My mind kept circling back to the moment Bert had spoken of earlier—the moment when I kissed Lindsey. I could still feel the sting of loneliness that had engulfed me after Hayley and my son had passed. I was a man adrift, utterly vulnerable. I suppose she must have seen it in my eyes, that unspoken emptiness. She had asked if he could stay after class to discuss her diploma, and in that quiet solitude, it just happened. A fleeting thing, a momentary lapse, and yet it had cast a shadow over my life ever since. Such a small, seemingly insignificant thing—yet it carried the weight of everything I had become.I reached for the bottle of Ballobarbital in the cabinet, my fingers trembling as I poured a generous dose. Sleep had become my only refuge, the only solace from the storm of regret and sorrow. Perhaps, when I awoke, Frankie would be back—safe, unscathed, and lying in my arms once more. Frank ’ s POV The room into which I was dragged reeked of grit and family history, a space worn and weathered yet fiercely alive. The walls were paneled in dark wood, their grain polished smooth by decades of hands and shoulders brushing past. Faded floral wallpaper peeked out above the wainscoting, its colors muted and dulled by years of coal dust and pipe smoke.A sturdy, rectangular table dominated the center of the room, its scarred surface a testament to countless meals, arguments, and business dealings conducted over it. Around it stood a set of mismatched chairs, each creaking under the weight of time. At one end of the table sat Thomas Shelby, his sharp gaze piercing through the haze of the dimly lit room. He leaned back slightly in his chair, cigarette in hand, as though every inch of him belonged to the seat of power. Beside him, to the right, Arthur Shelby perched on the edge of his chair, his restless energy vibrating through his knee, which bounced incessantly under the table. Polly Gray occupied a seat opposite Thomas, her posture composed and commanding, a cigarette holder balanced elegantly between her fingers, the smoke curling upward like a slow whisper.They were a sight to behold, unsettling, to say the least. Thomas, the leader, wore sorrow like a shadow beneath his stern, impenetrable exterior. His cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut glass. His eyes, an icy, penetrating blue, seemed to peel back the layers of my soul every time they met mine. His hair was neatly shaved at the sides, lending him an air of precision. He wore a grey suit—one of those made by a master tailor, the kind that didn’t just speak of wealth, but shouted it. The very fabric seemed to hum with opulence.Arthur was a bit older, his weathered face bearing the unmistakable signs of a man who’d seen the horrors of war. He was dressed simply—brown trousers held up by suspenders, a silken shirt that looked as though it had been thrown on without much thought. His moustache was neatly trimmed. In a way, he lacked the sharpness of his brother, there was something about him, the way he looked, that whispered of a deeper, more human side. His gaze held no malice, only a sense of weariness—a man who had lived through much but hadn’t yet been fully consumed by it.And then there was Polly. She was a vision of grace in a beautiful, dark green, tailor-made dress that seemed to shimmer with every movement. Her hair, brown and curly, cascaded gently down her arms, the soft tendrils giving her an almost ethereal presence. I’d seen her before, back in my younger days, at the church. My mother always warned me when we saw her, her voice tinged with caution. “She’s a Shelby. Keep your distance,” she’d say, her words carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken truths.To one side of the room, a faded settee sagged beneath the weight of its years, its upholstery patched in places but still serviceable. A few armchairs, their cushions long since flattened, framed the fireplace, where embers glowed faintly in the hearth. Above the mantelpiece hung a mirror with a tarnished frame, reflecting the dim light from a single overhead bulb encased in a frosted glass shade.The floor was bare wood, uneven and scuffed, with a threadbare rug stretched beneath the table. In one corner stood a tall cabinet, its glass doors displaying a collection of chipped crockery and a few tarnished silver pieces. The air smelled of damp wood, coal smoke, and a faint trace of whiskey, mingled with the ever-present tang of hard work and determination.This was a room that spoke of resilience. Every crack in the plaster and nick in the woodwork told a story of survival. It was not a warm space, but it was deeply human, full of the unyielding strength of those who called it home. Now, it felt stifling under their gazes—predators assessing their prey.
“
I’m not undressing,” I said defiantly, glaring at Polly. Her calm demeanor didn’t waver. “Darling, I’m being polite now. That won’t last much longer. Do as I say.” “No fucking way am I taking off my clothes in front of strangers!” Arthur’s patience snapped. “Yes, you are! By order of the Peaky fucking Blinders!” He slammed his pistol on the table, aiming it squarely at me. I froze in place, every muscle locking up. Momentarily, I lost my courage. Guns terrified me—I had never served in the war, my frail health keeping me from the front lines, so I had never grown numb to the sight of one aimed at me. The fear that clawed at my chest quickly morphed into a surge of anger, hot and reckless. "Be a good boy, Frankie," Bert sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. "We just want a peek at that perfect little body of yours. That’s all." He raised his gun as if to punctuate the threat, a twisted grin playing on his lips. My hands trembled as I complied, shame and fury warring within me. Reluctantly, I began to remove my clothes, every article stripped away feeling like another layer of dignity torn from me. My face burned with humiliation, but defiance simmered beneath the surface. “He’s perfect,” Thomas finally broke the silence, his voice cold and detached, like a butcher appraising meat. "Dress up." I scrambled to put my shirt back on, relief washing over me, though dread lingered. “Will anyone explain what’s going on?” Thomas leaned forward, his piercing eyes boring into mine with unsettling intensity. “We have a business venture that requires your... cooperation," he began, his tone sharp and calculated. "You’ll seduce the London Police Chief Officer and keep him suitably distracted during our operation. It shouldn’t take more than two months.” A cold, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I happened to discover your... proclivities. Which, in this case, makes you the perfect asset Oh, and don’t you worry, Iero. When it’s done, you may return to Gerard,” Thomas continued, his voice as steady as a blade. “And, as a reward for your cooperation, we’ll grant you protection. Relationships like yours—particularly between a student and his teacher—are hardly looked upon kindly. I’m sure you’re well aware of that. If all goes smoothly, we’ll ensure that no harm comes to you or Gerard..” “Two months?” I exclaimed, my voice rising with panic. I felt adrenaline flowing through my veins. “You fucking lying bastard!” I hissed, the fury rising in me like a raging storm. My anger was unchecked, spilling out uncontrollably. “Gerard will kill you all!” I spat at Bert, the venom of my words matching the bitterness of my heart. He merely chuckled, unfazed, and wiped the spit away with a tissue, as if nothing mattered.It had always been like that with me—too reckless, too brave for my own good when it came to protecting those I loved. I could recall a time, still in my youth, when I was on my way back from a pub one evening. It wasn’t too late—summer still held the light, the sun lingering in the sky—but there she was, Gabrielle, in the hands of a monster. A man was trying to force himself upon her. She was no fool, she never walked the streets at night alone, but that evening—he had her. The bastard had a knife, and his eyes were full of menace.I remember the heat of the moment, the pounding of my heart, as I charged at him, my hands grabbing the blade before he could strike her. Surprised, he let go of the knife, stunned by my sudden appearance. My frame was slight, not imposing, but the courage surged in me as if the world itself had given me strength. A quick slash to his arm, just enough to make him run, and he was gone, leaving Gabrielle in my arms. There were no things I wouldn’t do to save those I love.“Language, Frank!” Polly snapped, her tone sharp. “If you don’t cooperate, I’m afraid we’ll be the ones doing the killing. Starting with Gerard.” Her words struck like a dagger, and I felt the fight drain out of me. An image of Thomas shooting Gerard flashed before my eyes and I felt tears falling down my cheeks. I would do whatever it takes to save Gerard. Anything. I had to submit.“I’ll do whatever you want,” I whispered. “But promise me, promise, Gerard will be safe.”I spat into my hand, the gesture a rough pact of sorts, sealing the agreement. Polly followed suit, spitting into her own hand before we shook. There was something final about the act, though a part of me remained uncertain. I couldn’t quite bring myself to trust them entirely, but in that moment, a small fragment of peace settled within me, as if the simple exchange had somehow made everything a bit clearer.“Good boy,” Polly said with a faint smile. “Arthur, fix him a drink. I’ll show him his room.” Arthur handed me a bottle of whiskey upstairs, where Polly showed me a small, sparsely furnished room. It might have been charming under different circumstances, but now it felt like a prison. “Figured you’d need more than a glass,” Arthur said gruffly. “Just don’t drink it all—we leave for London early tomorrow.” The mention of London made my stomach churn, but I kept silent, taking the whiskey and closing the door behind him. Alone at last, I drowned my fears in the bottle until the world blurred and sleep finally claimed me.
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Chapter 4 One hundred sleepless nights
Gerard’s POV
I awoke, still feeling the lingering effects of the soporific I had taken the night before. Turning about, I searched frantically for Frank, only to find him absent. Instantly, sobriety washed over me, and my heart sank. That blasted McCracken. The scoundrel must have harmed him—I was certain of it. Hastily, I donned an old pair of trousers and a worn, somewhat tattered shirt, threw on my coat, and dashed to the garage. To my dismay, the automobile refused to start, again.“Cromwell Road Number Seven,” I mused. Bert had mentioned it was within the vicinity, so I hurried to the living room and consulted a map. It wasn’t far, thus I resolved to walk, despite the biting cold that gripped the air.The wind cut through me as I walked, sharp and unforgiving. Each step echoed in the silence, the sound bouncing off the narrow brick alleyways that twisted and turned ahead of me. Gaslights flickered weakly overhead, their glow casting long, distorted shadows on the cobblestones. A crumpled newspaper tumbled across my path, its headlines screaming something I didn’t have the focus to read. I pulled my coat tighter, my breath clouding in front of me, and tried not to think too hard about the ominous grey sky that loomed above.The journey took me approximately twenty five minutes, but all the emotions I felt made me forgot about the cold outside. There I stood, at his doorstep. I knocked firmly. After a short interval, footsteps approached, and Bert opened the door.I first met Bert when I was sixteen, and he became my first love—or what I thought was love at the time. I suppose I felt something powerful for him. I was drawn to his long black hair and those striking, bright eyes of his. I adored his radiant smile and the charm in his laugh. I loved his creativity—the romantic songs he’d compose on his grand piano, the way his mind always seemed to dance with ideas. He was intelligent, adventurous, and full of life. Much of our time was spent at his house, surrounded by his three sisters, two brothers, and their strict father. His mother had left when he was just a child, a wound that seemed to shape much of who he became. The siblings knew about us, but we had an unspoken pact. They kept our secret as they kept their own—small rebellions that they knew would earn their father’s wrath. He was a harsh man, quick to reach for his belt and a heavy drinker. It was known that he frequented a local brothel. Perhaps that environment was part of why Bert became who he was. One night, on my way to a local pub to meet my dear friend Ray, I saw something that shattered the illusion I had built around Bert. He was leaving the same brothel his father often visited. Shocked and hurt, I confronted him. His response was nothing short of horrifying. He struck me, leaving a bruise that lingered far too long. When I told him I wanted to leave him, he threatened to kill himself. I was too young, too inexperienced to recognize it for what it was—manipulation, pure and simple. I stayed, trapped in fear. But not for long. It happened again—I saw him entering the brothel. This time, I ran back to his house while he was gone, packed my belongings, and left before he could return. I didn’t go home to my devout mother and strict father, who were locked in their own endless cycle of arguments and violence. I couldn’t face that chaos. Instead, I turned to Ray. Ray was the one person I trusted completely. He knew the truth about me—that I fancied both men and women—and he never made me feel ashamed of it. His family, warm and accepting, made their home feel like the safest place on Earth. Staying with Ray was like breathing fresh air after drowning. After that, I would only returned to my family home when I wanted to see Mikey. He was the sole tether that connected me to that place, the only part of it I still loved.I knew Bert had never forgiven me not giving him yet another chance and I believed that taking Frank was his form of vendetta. “Is Frank here?” I inquired.“He’s not,” Bert replied, a vile grin stretching across his face.I knew something wasn’t right. Bert’s words had the air of deceit, his smirking tone laced with insincerity that only fueled my growing unease. I had known him long enough to recognize when he wasn’t being completely honest. Every instinct screamed that he was hiding something, but I couldn’t yet piece together what it was. The uncertainty clawed at me, feeding an overwhelming sense of dread that settled in the pit of my stomach like a lead weight. What was he concealing? Where was Frank? And how far would I have to go to uncover the truth?“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe a single word you say!” I exclaimed, my voice rising in frustration.“Oh, sweetheart. No need to be so sour. Come in and see for yourself,” he retorted.Obeying his invitation, I entered. The house loomed like a relic of darker times, its Victorian grandeur tarnished by years of neglect. The paint on the shutters peeled like dead skin, and ivy crept up the walls, threatening to swallow the building whole. Inside, the hall was swathed in deep crimson, the wallpaper cracked and curling in places. The air was heavy, carrying the stale scent of tobacco and something metallic, almost like rust. A grand staircase rose ahead, its mahogany railing polished to a deceptive shine, leading to shadows above. The red carpet underfoot muffled footsteps, making every move feel like a secret whispered to the house itself.“You’re welcome to inspect every room to verify my honesty,” he declared, flashing that dreadful, malicious grin once more.I meticulously searched each chamber—the kitchen, dining room, living room, bathrooms, bedrooms, even the basement. Yet, Frank was nowhere to be found.“What did you do to him, McCracken?!” I shouted, unable to maintain my composure as a sense of foreboding overwhelmed me.“Oh, I did nothing. We merely had some fun with your little bird, then he decided his heart wasn’t set on you. He flew away to escape you, fearing you might come looking for him.”“I don’t believe you. You’re a fucking liar!”“You’re becoming too emotional. I am deeply sorry; I understand what it feels like to have one’s heart broken. You showed me what it feels like, remember?”“You’re lying, and I’m certain of it.”“Well, this time I am not. Now, go away. I need to prepare for this week’s classes. See you at the campus, Way.”I departed without bidding him farewell, my mind teeming with thoughts. I had to find Frank, to uncover what had transpired. Resolute, I decided to contact the one person who always knew what to do—my brother, Michael. He was ever by my side, as I was by his. We had always been remarkably close, bound by the trials of our shared upbringing. Our parents quarreled incessantly, their animosities spilling over and leaving their mark upon us. We learned early to stand together, shoulder to shoulder, through thick and thin. For all their evident hatred of one another, they would shield each other steadfastly and cast blame squarely upon me. Though she proved a harsh and unyielding mother to us both, Mikey ever remained her favored child. In contrast to my solitary nature, he was surrounded by companions and aspired to the lofty profession of medicine—a calling my mother deemed far superior to my aspirations of artistry. To her, artists were naught but the dregs of society, unworthy of esteem. While she did, on occasion, scold him, her wrath fell upon me with far greater frequency. Moreover, she unfailingly championed him whenever Father’s temper flared at his missteps. Not once did she extend such loyalty to me. Strangely, I didn’t feel any jealousy. Instead, I found myself genuinely happy for him, but it would be a lie if I said it hadn’t affected my confidence. She bought him a house, made sure he had enough money so his future was never in question. It seemed to me that this was her way of showing love. As for myself, I never received anything from her. She never cared for me, and I learned to accept it. The only affection I knew came from my grandmother. She left me her entire fortune in her will, which proved invaluable when I decided to leave home, and eventually, Birmingham. Ray and I both made it into the University of London and shared an apartment. Life moved on. After graduating, I met Hayley, a fellow Birmingham native, and we married in August 1913. I used my grandmother's inheritance to rent a modest apartment in the capital and invested the rest in stocks and commodities, focusing on securing my future and building something for myself and my wife. Not long after, both my parents passed away, one after the other. While there might have been a trace of sadness, what I felt more than anything was relief. Their absence made it easier for me to return to my roots, to go back to where it all started. I stepped inside my house, the door closing behind me with a muffled thud, as though the world outside was too much for even the walls to bear. My boots scraped across the wooden floor, the sound ringing too loud in the stillness. Everything felt too quiet. The house hadn’t changed, yet it felt alien, a place I barely recognized anymore. I walked past the hallway and into the living room. The moment I stepped through the threshold, I was hit by the suffocating weight of the room—the air thick with guilt, sorrow, and regret. It pressed down on me like a heavy coat I couldn’t shake off. The space seemed to pulse with the echoes of my troubled thoughts. The curtains were drawn, and the room was dim, save for the weak glow of the fire flickering in the hearth. The low crackle from the flames did little to warm the chill settling in my chest.I sank into one of the chairs by the fireplace, staring blankly into the dancing flames. My thoughts swirled like smoke, impossible to grasp and even harder to escape. The guilt gnawed at me—Frank, my decisions, the helplessness that kept clawing at me. I should have done more. I should have been there. But all I could do was sit here, feeling like I had failed him. I had failed so many people.I closed my eyes, but all I saw was the war. The faces of men I never knew, lying in French fields, their bodies twisted, staring at nothing. The screams, the explosions, the mud, the blood. It flooded my mind all over again, so real, so vivid. I couldn’t breathe.My heart began to race, the air suddenly feeling too thin, too tight. Panic gripped me, tight and suffocating. I gasped for air, my hands trembling at my sides as my chest felt like it was caving in. I could feel my pulse in my temples, the world around me spinning. In a daze, I stumbled to the small table by the door, my hands fumbling through the drawers until I found what I was looking for: a bottle of bromide tablets. A doctor had given them to me some time ago, after one of my worst panic attacks. A quick fix, they said—something to quiet the mind and calm the nerves. At least for a while. I popped a couple into my mouth, swallowing them dry as I sat back down, trying to steady my breathing. The bitterness lingered on my tongue, but it did little to soothe the storm in my chest.I leaned back in the chair, my eyes closing, praying for the room to stop spinning. The weight of it all was suffocating. I couldn’t make sense of the mess inside me. The war, the guilt, Frank—my love for him and the things I was too afraid to say. I just needed a moment. A brief respite from the overwhelming chaos in my head.Gradually, the edges of my panic softened. The sharpness in my chest began to disappear, like a dull ache that faded with each slow breath I took. My heartbeat, frantic just moments ago, steadied. The racing thoughts slowed, sinking into the background, almost as if they were being gently pushed away by some invisible hand.The medicine didn’t fix anything—it didn’t erase the guilt or the terror that lingered in the pit of my stomach—but it quieted the storm inside me. I could feel my shoulders slowly release their tension, the tightness in my neck loosening bit by bit. The sharp clarity that came with the anxiety was replaced with something softer, more numb. My mind didn’t feel so sharp anymore—just a haze of calm that wrapped itself around me, lulling me into a temporary peace.I sat there in the quiet, staring at the fire, the crackling of the logs almost soothing now. The firelight flickered, casting shadows on the walls, and for a moment, it was as if the room was no longer closing in on me. The weight lifted, if only slightly. But the longer I sat in that stillness, the more I realized that what I needed wasn’t just the medicine. The numbness wouldn’t last forever, and sooner or later, the guilt and grief would come rushing back. I needed something more—something that reached deeper than pills or alcohol or distractions.And then, as though smitten by a bolt of lightning, a singular feeling overcame me—a sentiment akin to that of a father towards his child. It was for Frankie, my dear boy. Though he was but five years my junior, I felt an undeniable compulsion to shield him. Not merely as his teacher, but as his lover. Frank, in many ways, mirrored the man I once was, years before the war. Innocent, curious, eager for new experiences—so pure in his disposition. Yet such purity rendered him vulnerable, susceptible to harm. I had been like that once, too. But then came the war. Day after day of witnessing death, mountains of lifeless bodies, and violence so senseless it robbed me of all the youthful joy and innocence I once possessed. The images of French fields strewn with the fallen still haunted me. Yet, when I was with Frank, those memories seemed to fade. Perhaps it was because I felt compelled to stay strong for him, to bear the weight so he would not have to. The urge to protect him was unshakable. I wanted to ensure he would never endure the horrors that had shaped me. The only true protector I had ever known was my grandmother, whose kindness was a refuge for me and Mikey. But a foolish, irrational quarrel led our parents to forbid us from seeing her. Soon after, she passed away. And then it was just Mikey and me, alone against the world.I had to keep Frank safe. And I had failed him. The enormity of my failure pressed upon me, and the thought that harm might come to him because of it was unbearable. I dropped to my knees, overwhelmed by guilt, anger, and despair. The floor felt cold and unwelcoming, but it didn’t bother me much at the moment. A strange, almost involuntary thought gripped me, and I couldn’t shake it. I need to pray. I somehow thought that maybe this would help me better than chugging another bromide or a double. I wasn’t really sure if I believed in God, or in anything really but in that very moment, it felt like the only thing I could do to stay sane. In a way, I felt ridiculous - I have always rebelled against my parents trying to force religion upon me and here I was, wanting to ask God for help. “God?” - I said in my mind. God felt so distant. I knew technically God, Jesus and Holy Spirit are one and the same person, thus Jesus is a corporal form of God (it was the lack of it that made Him feel distant) but my mind couldn’t grasp it and always viewed Them as separate beings. Suddenly, I remembered a painting my mother hung in our living room. It represented Virgin Mary with swords around her head. “Our Lady of Sorrows,” I remembered. She felt much different. At that moment, I thought of Her as of a warm and loving mother, total opposite of Donna, my own mother. I hadn’t prayed in years, but in that moment, I felt so adrift that I turned to the only solace I could think of. My parents, devout Catholics, had made Mikey and me recite our prayers every evening as children. Though it had been so long, I remembered well that Our Lady of Sorrows was the one to whom one could plead for comfort in sadness, strength in suffering, and fortitude in life’s trials.I prayed aloud, unable to bear the oppressive silence of the room, broken only by the occasional crackling of the fire. I begged Her to watch over Frankie, no matter the cost, and to grant me the strength to endure whatever lay ahead. A strange, contradictory sensation washed over me: a warmth and calm within, though perhaps a result of the medicine I’d taken earlier, yet it was accompanied by a swell of fierce hope and anger. “If God exists,” I wondered, “why does He permit such horrors? Why the wars, the slaughter of the innocent? And why, in His wisdom, did He take Frankie from me?” I longed to ask Her, but would there be an answer? In keeping with Pascal’s Wager, I assumed God was real, and that perhaps chastising the Holy Virgin was not the wisest course. I concluded my prayer with the Seven Sorrows of Mary, strangely still etched in my mind.Warm tears streamed down my cheeks as I whispered, “Amen.” Rising to my feet, resolute, I crossed the room to the telephone and dialed Mikey’s number.“Hello?” A familiar voice greeted me over the telephone.“Michael? I need your assistance. May I come over?”“Yes, I’m home now. You’re always welcome; there’s no need to ask.” I hurried to the garage, and to my astonishment, the car sprang to life.“Thank heavens,” I thought. The drive lasted approximately twenty minutes, each moment consumed with thoughts of Frank. “My God, Gerard. You’re in tears,” my brother observed.He stood taller than I, his frame lean and slight. His straight hair, ever so unruly, tumbled across his face in careless disarray. A pair of spectacles perched upon his nose, a necessity born of long nights spent poring over medical tomes by the dim glow of candlelight, which had done no favors to his already feeble eyesight.“I need your help, Mikey. You’re the only one I can trust,” I confessed, my voice wavering with each word.“Of course.”Unsure of how to begin, I lingered awkwardly on the threshold, fumbling in vain for the right words to convey the peculiar predicament in which I now found myself.“You see, there is someone named Frank. Frank Iero, to be precise. He’s my student. I developed feelings for him some time ago.”“Gerard, you’re involved with your student?” Mikey raised an eyebrow.“Are you suggesting I lack a conscience?! He is merely five years younger. He didn’t serve in the war; his health was too fragile. While most of us were away, he had to pause his studies and resumed once the war concluded. He’s graduating soon.”“Oh, I’m sorry. I knew you wouldn’t do anything improper. I apologize if it sounded that way. We shall go to the kitchen and sit down. I’ll make you some tea. Come in.” The kitchen was a cheerful refuge, the morning sun spilling through white lace curtains and onto the polished oak table in the center of the room. A kettle whistled softly on the stove, filling the air with the promise of tea. Cabinets painted a soft robin’s egg blue held mismatched china plates, their edges chipped from years of use. The faint aroma of baked bread and cinnamon lingered, making it feel more like a sanctuary than a place for meals. A crocheted rug lay before the hearth, where logs crackled quietly, their warmth chasing away the bitter chill of winter outside. I took a seat and recounted everything that had transpired. “I see,” he nodded thoughtfully. “I believe we should contact Pete. He’s my…” Mikey paused briefly, “…good friend. He always seems to be aware of what McCracken is up to.”Soon enough, Pete stood at the doorstep, his presence calm yet commanding. I recounted the story again, my voice trembling and breaking under the weight of my emotions. Michael quietly passed me a wooden box of tissues, and I wiped my tears, trying to steady myself. Pete was a striking man, with olive-toned skin, deep brown eyes, and dark hair that framed his face perfectly. I had met him a handful of times at dinners hosted by Michael, but I had never seen him in such a serious light.When I finished, Pete leaned back slightly, crossing his arms as he considered my words. “Well,” he began, “I can’t say for sure, but I have a strong suspicion the Shelby family might be involved. My father does business with them, and through him, I know McCracken has ties to their operations. If my hunch is correct, this could be serious.”My chest tightened at the mention of the Shelby’s—Birmingham’s most notorious gang. Their reputation was fearsome, and the thought of them being connected to Frank’s disappearance made my stomach churn.The Shelby family had a grip on the town, their power stretching into every corner. They ruled through fear, and anyone who crossed them paid the price. People disappeared without a word, their fates sealed by betrayal or debt. Mercy was foreign to the Shelby’s, and loyalty was the only currency that mattered. In a world where defiance was punished without hesitation, no one dared to stand against them.Pete continued, his tone steady but firm. “Thankfully, the Shelby’s have no idea I’m connected to Michael. For now, it gives me a certain advantage. No one knows about us—not even my father, who’s pressuring me to go through with an engagement to my fiancée. My mother’s health is fragile, and I don’t want to upset her, so I’ve kept up the charade. Normally, I hate the situation and feel awful about it, but for once, it’s working in our favor. With my father involved in the gun-smuggling operation the Shelby’s are planning, I have a reason to approach them without arousing suspicion.”He looked directly at me, his gaze unwavering. “I’ll do everything I can, Gerard. I promise. We will find Frank.”My heart felt heavy with gratitude and anxiety. “Pete, you’re heaven-sent. I’ll do anything to repay you. Just please, please save Frankie.”Pete smiled faintly, shaking his head. “You don’t owe me anything. I’d do whatever it takes for Michael’s loved ones. But listen to me—don’t try to get involved yourself. This is delicate, and any misstep could cause more harm. Let me handle it from here.”“I trust you, Pete. Thank you,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. That night, I stayed at Michael’s, retreating to the guest room. The thought of being alone was unbearable. I tossed and turned in the unfamiliar bed, my mind filled with thoughts of Frank and the danger he might be in. The following morning, Pete left to visit his family and talk the Shelby business with them, his resolve unshaken. I could only hope his determination and connections would lead us to Frank before it was too late. I felt responsible for Frank’s safety. It wasn’t purely caused by my emotional attachment to him. There was also a strange, almost paternal feeling to it. I knew I would never forgive myself if anything happened to my student. And, I felt I could already call him that, my lover. We’ve merely gotten together two days ago, yet I felt like he was my everything. I knew I wanted to share every moment of my life with him. I never knew I could fall for someone so hard, yet here I was. A feeling of guilt passed through my body, yet again I felt so wrong for letting Bert take him. It should’t have happened. Frank was in my every single thought. What was happening to him? Was he thinking of me? Does he hate me now for letting this happen? Then, the worst thought of all passed through my head. Is he alive? “No, he has to be alive. I am sure of that. He is alive” I thought, a tear escaping my eye.
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Chapter 5 It’s not a fashion statement, it’s a death wish
Frank’s POV
I was roused from sleep by a sharp knock at the door. Polly’s voice, curt and commanding, followed shortly after. It was barely dawn. The moment I recalled the drive to London that lay ahead, I felt a rare gratitude for having resisted the urge to drain the entire bottle of whiskey the previous evening. “Frank,” Polly called through the door, “get yourself dressed. You’ll be travelling with Thomas. There’ll be a stop at your lodgings to gather some clothes. Make it quick. He’ll explain the plan en route.” I managed a faint smile and murmured my assent, though the prospect of sharing a journey with Thomas Shelby turned my stomach. There was something chilling about him—those cold, unblinking eyes, the hardened line of his scarred face, and that dispassionate tone he wielded like a weapon. To him, I was naught but a pawn, a disposable asset. The nagging thought followed me relentlessly: “When this is done, will he put a bullet in my skull?” Once Polly left, I reached for the whiskey and drained what little remained. A poor substitute for courage, but it dulled the gnawing fear well enough for the moment. ---I packed hastily, choosing my finest attire and a handful of books that seemed indispensable. My sketchbook came along too—not for my own poor drawings, but for the corrections Gerard had made in its margins during our lessons. Those small marks of his hand were all I had left to remind me of him. They were my anchor in the storm I now faced. Before long, I found myself in Thomas Shelby’s motorcar, headed for London. “You’ll take up work at a pub,” Thomas began, his voice measured and unyielding. “The Chief Officer is a regular there. We’ve provided you with references and a fabricated history of prior employment. You’ll have until the end of February. That night, we execute the operation, and you’ll leave London with him for the weekend. Do you understand?” His words carried the weight of a gun to my temple. “Yes,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. The remainder of the journey passed in silence, save for the hum of the engine. My thoughts were consumed by Gerard. Was he safe? Was he afraid? I longed for the sound of his voice, the warmth of his alabaster skin, the solace in his gaze. He was my one ray of hope amidst this nightmare. The Shelby’s inspired no trust in me, but I clung to the belief that Gerard might somehow carry me through. --- Thomas brought the car to a halt outside a modest brick townhouse. “This is where you’ll stay,” he said brusquely. “The pub—Three Cheers—is just down the lane. They’re looking for a lad to tend the bar, pour drinks, clean up, that sort of thing. Nothing unusual. You’ll start tomorrow. Here are your references.” He thrust the keys and a small packet of papers into my hand. “Thank you. Safe travels back,” I ventured, though Thomas spun swiftly on his heel, only to pivot once more to face me.“I like your courage. There, in my house. When you spat at Bert, that was very brave of you. I hope you can make good use of it.” With those words, he got into his car and drove away. I stepped inside the house and took stock. It was simple but pleasant enough—a snug kitchen and sitting room on the ground floor, with a modest bedroom and bath above. It was more than sufficient for my needs. Truth be told, a larger dwelling would have felt lonely, and this one, for all its austerity, held a faint semblance of comfort.I poured hot water in the tub. There was a fresh soap waiting for me on the cupboard. It had a really familiar scent. Vanilla, black pepper, musk. I closed my eyes and the memories of my night with Gerard came back, so vivid as if he really was there with me. For a short moment, I forgot about everything around me. The smell of the soap brought thoughts of the small kisses Gerard would lay on my neck and my lips, the taste of his tongue, the way he felt inside me. I started gently stroking myself, imagining it was Gerard’s hand around wrapped around my cock. I cried out of pleasure when my orgasm came. Oh how I wished I could share it with Gerard. It was the only thing I needed. Maybe, maybe it would happen again. “Have hope, Iero. Don’t lose hope.”After my bath, I retired to bed. To my surprise, the mattress proved far more comfortable than the one at home. I opened my sketchbook, my eyes lingering on the delicate lines Gerard had drawn within its pages. The sound of Bert’s mocking voice invaded my thoughts, recalling his cruel mention of Gerard kissing a girl in the classroom. A tear rolled down my cheek, unbidden. What if I meant no more to him than that girl had? The bitter truth was, I scarcely knew Gerard. I have known him for quite some time as my teacher but did I really know the person he was in private? He was breathtakingly beautiful, possessed an unmatched talent for art, and taught it with such ease that it was no wonder students fell for him. If I weren’t there, what would stop him from finding someone else? Does he even care about what’s happening to me right now? A wave of anger hit me, so strong that I covered my mouth with a pillow and screamed on top of my lungs. “Why did you let this happen to me, huh? I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” I collapsed onto my bed, tears streaming down my face. Being left behind, replaced—it was a feeling I knew all too well. Why would anything be different now? As a child, my fragile health often kept me out of school, leaving me perpetually out of sync with whatever was happening there. For the same reason, I never joined in the sports games the other boys played. Not that I’d have been interested, anyway. Most of my time was spent in the company of girls, as the boys rarely spared me a word. My only male friends growing up were Geoff and Ryan. Geoff, though, broke my heart when we hit our teenage years as he started dating girls leaving me too hurt to continue our friendship - even though I didn’t know it was love or attraction at the time, I felt it had changed things between us. Ryan, on the other hand, moved to Liverpool with his family, which effectively ended things. My family didn’t have a landline at the time, so staying in touch was impossible. We tried writing letters, but we would write less and les often until it stopped completely. Sometimes I still wondered how was he doing. A horrifying idea passed through my mind: what if all of it had been planned and Gerard knew of it? What if his task had been to seduce me, just like I was supposed to do with the Chief Officer now? But even in the depths of my loneliness, there was one glimmer of hope—a faint but persistent light at the end of a seemingly endless tunnel. There was something undeniably different about Gerard, something that set him apart from everyone else. He felt genuine in a way that was rare, like he wasn’t just wearing a mask to fit in or appease anyone. And then there was his complicated history with Bert. Everyone at the university knew about the resentment and hatred that burned between the two of them. The idea of Gerard playing on the same team as Bert seemed not just unlikely but outright illogical.“Maybe he really likes you, after all?” I muttered aloud. “He enjoyed your company, invited you to his home, and wished you to stay with him daily. You’ve no reason to doubt him.” Still, the ache in my chest remained. My anger slowly faded only to be replaced by the need to feel him close once more, and I resolved that I would endure any trial to make it so. —-
Gerard's POV
I passed the entire morning in the guest chamber, sketching portraits of Frankie—his slender frame, his chin-length dark hair curling softly at the ends, and that delicate, winsome smile. “My God, his smile. It’s the most beautiful smile I have ever seen, there’s no doubt.” “Gerard, are you going to have some supper? Please, you must eat something!” Mikey’s voice carried up from the kitchen below. I thought Reluctantly, I made my way down for his sake; I couldn’t bear the worry in his eyes when I refused. “I’ve made you a sandwich, Gee. For heaven’s sake, eat it. I’m begging you,” he said, pressing a plate into my hands. Taking a bite, I realised how famished I was. “Thank you, Mikey. You needn’t have troubled yourself.” “Think nothing of it.” “Have you had any word from Pete?” I asked, my voice faltering. “He rang from his house not long ago. Said he’d be here by supper, but nothing more.” My stomach churned with anxiety, but I forced the feeling aside. “It will be all right. It must be.” I nodded, offering him my quiet understanding. More than anything, I wished for Mikey’s happiness and silently prayed that things would work out for him. Pete, I realised, had earned my sympathy, despite everything. A knock at the door shattered the moment. My heart quickened as Mikey went to answer it. It was Pete. “Pour me a drink, won’t you, Mikey? A double,” Pete said brusquely. With glasses filled, the three of us sat around the kitchen table. “Here’s the situation,” Pete began. “My father acquired some guns from Wales. They’re in Birmingham now, ready to be smuggled to America through a deal with the Shelby’s. But first, it’s necessary to transport them to London, only from there to New York, But the new London Police Chief has caught wind of it all—our families’ alliance, the expansion into London. McCracken saw Frank as the perfect pawn for this operation. He’s been sent to London to seduce the Chief Officer and distract him on the night of the operation.” My heart sank. Frankie—my sweet, innocent Frankie. “Mikey, might you have any tobacco?” I inquired, my tone betraying a touch of weariness. The previous night, I had smoked through the entirety of my supply, finding it a surprising balm for the nerves I had been forced to endure.“Here you go.” He gave it to me with a small smile. All three of us sat in silence for a moment, but the weight of everything was becoming too much to bear.“I have to go to him. I have to save him!” I exclaimed, rising from my seat. “You can’t, Gerard,” Pete said firmly. “I know this is hard, but staying here is best for him. I’ll make certain nothing happens to Frank.” But I scarcely heard him as I bolted for the door. “You’re not going anywhere!” Mikey shouted, stepping in my path. “You’ll only make matters worse. Promise me you won’t go, Gerard. Promise!” His words broke me. I slumped, defeated. “All right. If it will keep Frankie safe, I promise.” Soon after Pete left and I was alone with Mikey. I didn’t want to talk about Frank for a moment, thoughts of him were too heartbreaking, so I asked Mikey a question that had bothered me since last night. “Mikey, who is this Pete to you? Surely, you know you may confide in me,” I said, my voice low and steady. He faltered, his gaze dropping before he replied. “He’s… more than a friend, that much I can tell you. I’ve wanted to speak of it before, but something always seemed to get in the way. And truthfully, his family’s ties to the Shelby’s don’t ease matters.” My heart grew heavy at his words, pained by the thought that he had not trusted me enough to share this sooner. “Michael,” I began gently, “you know full well of my own inclinations. As long as he keeps you from harm and brings you joy, you shall have my blessing.” A soft smile broke upon my lips. “I know, Gerard, and for that, I’m truly sorry.” With that, he pulled me into a firm, brotherly embrace. A chuckle escaped him, sudden and unexpected. “And what amuses you so?” I asked, my curiosity piqued. “The irony of it all,” he said, his grin broadening. “Picture it—our pious mother discovering that both her sons, even her cherished favorite, share the same forbidden proclivities. It’s almost laughable, isn’t it?” I couldn’t help but laugh in return. “Indeed, it is.”We both stayed in the kitchen laughing at talking till late. I felt great when I was with Mikey, but it changed when I was alone. That night, I lay in my brother’s guest room, tormented by nightmares of Frankie, lifeless, at the hands of a shadowy figure in a peaked cap. ---
Frank's POV
“What’s your business here, lad?” a man in his fifties asked gruffly, his weathered face half-hidden by the dim light of the Three Cheers pub. The place exuded an air of weary charm, with its wooden bar gleaming faintly beneath a worn oil lamp. The scent of stale ale mingled with that of polished oak, and the low hum of conversations filled the room like the buzzing of a distant hive. “I heard you might be in need of a hand,” I said, my voice steady though my stomach churned. “Just moved down from Birmingham. Brought references with me.” The man, who introduced himself as Harry, took the papers, his calloused fingers grazing the edges as he inspected them with a squint. He had short grey hair, wasn’t very tall and his face was friendly and warm. He seemed to be in his fifties.“Well then, seems you’ll do,” he said at last, sliding the papers back to me. Relief swept over me like a wave. “First shift’s this afternoon. Three sharp. Don’t be late.” “Thank you, sir. Name’s Frank,” I replied, offering a handshake that he accepted with a firm grip. Back at the modest brick house that was now my refuge, I set about preparing for the evening. The small space felt strangely hollow despite its cosy appearance—a kitchen with mismatched plates stacked neatly on wooden shelves, a sitting room with a faded armchair that still bore the imprint of past tenants. I pulled on a clean shirt, knotting a red handkerchief around my neck. A sign for those who knew where to look. * Sitting at the small kitchen table, I scribbled furiously onto a torn page from my sketchbook, each word an outpouring of longing and desperation: ---
Dear G.,
My heart aches with the weight of our separation. I miss you terribly and hope you feel the same. My very being longs for your touch, and no melody can replace the music of your voice. When this ordeal is done, we shall be together once more. I pray this letter reaches you with my cologne still clinging to the paper.
Yours, always and forever,
Frank
---Folding the note carefully, I sealed it in an envelope and dropped it in the post box outside the pub, watching it disappear into the metal slot as though it were a piece of my soul. The shift began as a quiet one. The pub’s dim light flickered against the amber of freshly poured ales, and the rhythmic clink of glasses filled the air. I busied myself wiping down tables and counter tops, finding a strange comfort in the mundanity of it all. Then, the door creaked open, and in stepped a tall man in a police uniform. His dark brows framed piercing eyes, his posture commanding even as he glanced casually around the room. “That must be Brendon,” I thought, my chest tightening. “You must be the new lad,” remarked a patron, his voice slurred yet jovial. “Aye, first day,” I replied, forcing a small smile. “Brendon,” the officer said from the bar, his voice smooth but laced with something unsettling. “A glass of Scotch. No ice.” I poured the drink, my hands steady though my thoughts raced. But before I could gauge his reaction, a crash rang out—a bottle shattering near one of the tables. “Singing! Where’s the bloody singing!” a drunken man bellowed, his face flushed with anger. "What singing, sir?” I asked, my voice tentative. “The lass who worked here before you—she’d sing for us! Now they’ve gone and swapped her for some queer pup, and no singing to boot. Sing, you bloody fairy!” Music has ever been my greatest love, surpassing all other forms of art. As a child, I sang in the church choir, and thus retained a fair understanding of proper vocal technique. Yet, I must confess, performing for a congregation of devout grandmothers seemed an altogether simpler task than singing before men who might have indulged in one pint too many. I stood up on an empty table just next to the bar and started my favourite chant, the one I remembered my dear father singing with his friends when they’d visit:
“Here’s good luck to the pint pot,
Good luck to the barleymow.
Jolly good luck to the pint pot,
Good luck to the barleymow.”
As the verses went on, one voice joined, then another, until the pub was filled with a roaring chorus. For a fleeting moment, the fear eased, replaced by the rhythm of the old tune. But when the song ended, the man stood again, his expression twisted with disdain. “T’was decent enough, but you’re no lady. To Hell with you!” Before I could react, a glass sailed through the air, striking my forehead with a sharp, searing pain. The room fell silent, the echoes of laughter replaced by the dull thud of my heartbeat in my ears.* in the 1920s being openly queer, esp for “regular” people who were not in any position of power, was dangerous. You couldn’t just tell people you were gay. Because of that, there existed certain discrete ways of letting others know: wearing a red handkerchief was one of them.
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Chapter 6
Fever Dream
I stirred to wakefulness, the dull throb in my head quickly sharpening as I became aware of the chaos that had unfolded at the pub. A cold compress rested against my temple, offering a fleeting reprieve. “Here now, lad, this should take the edge off,” came a steady voice, calm but lacking the tenderness I longed for. “Some fool lobbed a glass at you last night. You’ll be fine in a day or two—just need some rest. You’ll stay here for the time being.” “Gee… Gee, I can’t go back there. Please,” I stammered, clutching at the blanket as desperation overtook me. “Let me stay here, with you—please, Gee!” A sigh escaped him, his tone firm yet even. “Now, now, calm yourself. I’ve told you before—it’s Brendon, not Gee. And yes, you can stay for now.” My heart sank as I opened my eyes and took in my surroundings. This wasn’t Gerard’s room. The space, though well-furnished and tasteful, lacked the intimate warmth of his touch. The bed beneath me was stiff, unfamiliar, and the faint trace of cologne in the air belonged to someone else entirely. Brendon’s voice broke the silence. “I brought you here after that commotion. You fainted outright after some bastard clocked you with a glass. The doctor’s seen you; you’ll recover well enough. Now get some proper rest.” He offered a faint smile before departing, closing the door gently behind him. Left to my thoughts, I cursed the cruel twist of fate that had placed me here. “Well, that’s fortune for you,” I muttered bitterly. “If I’ve got to cozy up to the man, at least this simplifies things.” The words rang hollow—a feeble attempt to convince myself of something I didn’t believe. Brendon wasn’t unattractive, that much was true. His sharp features and confident demeanor carried a certain appeal. He was tall and well built, yet still slim. His dark brown hair was cut rather short, his eyebrows were thick and his smile was undeniably pleasant. What struck me most, however, was his extraordinary sense of style. His suit, unlike any I had ever seen, was stitched with silver threads here and there, lending it a subtle sheen that caught the light in a way both understated and remarkable. He was older than Gerard by a few years—two or three, perhaps—but not unpleasant to look upon. And yet, something about him unsettled me, though I was too weary to ponder it further. ---Later, a soft knock preceded the entrance of a woman in her forties, neatly dressed and exuding an air of capable authority. “Officer Urie asked me to show you to the bath,” she said with a kind smile. “A good soak will do you wonders.” The bathroom was modest yet inviting, its gleaming tiles and clawfoot tub radiating warmth. Steam curled invitingly from the water, and on a chair nearby lay a set of clothes—a beige silk shirt and black trousers, understated but elegant. As I sank into the bath, the heat worked its magic, easing the tension from my body. Still, my thoughts were heavy, Gerard’s absence an ever-present ache in my chest. No amount of warmth could banish the chill of missing him. “Frank! Breakfast is ready,” Brendon’s voice called sharply from below, dragging me back to reality. His tone was a stark reminder of where I was. Dressing quickly, I swallowed the pang of longing and made my way downstairs. At the polished table, Brendon sat with a cigarette in hand, a newspaper spread before him. Setting it aside, he greeted me with a smile. “Good morning, Frank.” “Morning,” I replied hesitantly. “Thank you—for everything. For helping me at the pub, for letting me stay, and for breakfast. It’s more than decent of you.” He waved off my gratitude. “Think nothing of it. You’re alone in London from what I gather, and I couldn’t leave you in that state. Now, come here; let me check your forehead.” “Ssssh!” I hissed as his fingers brushed the tender spot. “Sorry, lad,” he said with a soft chuckle. “It’ll smart for a while, but you’re healing. I spoke with Harry while you were asleep. You’ve got a week off, still paid. Don’t fret about it. Where do you call home? My chauffeur can take you there.” The prospect of a paid week without work was dizzying, too good to be true. I disliked owing Brendon anything, yet relief coursed through me at the thought of escaping the pub’s drudgery for seven whole days. Maybe I could write Gerard again. “Wimbledon. Cromwell Road 18,” I blurted, only realizing afterward how peculiar it sounded—too perfect a coincidence. Brendon nodded, taking a slow drag on his cigarette before offering me the case. “Care for one?” I hesitated, then accepted. The familiar scent of the tobacco was a bittersweet comfort. Drawing the smoke into my lungs, it was as though Gerard were there with me, if only for a fleeting moment. Brendon’s gaze lingered. “One more thing—who’s Gee? You mentioned his name in your sleep.” My heart clenched. “Gee? Oh, he’s my cousin,” I lied, keeping my voice steady. “He’s helping my mother now that my father’s gone. I’ve been unwell a lot, and he’s always looked after me. That’s likely why I said his name.” Brendon’s expression softened. “Good to know it’s just a cousin.” Before I left, he handed me my red handkerchief, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Don’t forget this,” he said, his tone laden with unspoken meaning. Back home, I collapsed onto my bed, the day’s events weighing heavily on my heart. Reaching for my sketchbook, I found Gerard’s delicate drawing of a Scottish landscape. Beneath one of the trees, I noticed a detail I’d somehow missed before:
G, xoxo.
A tear slipped down my cheek, silent and warm, as the ache in my chest deepened once more.
Gerard’s POV
I awoke late, burdened by the unwelcome weight of consciousness, wishing I had not stirred at all. Without thought or care, I pulled random garments from my closet, paying no mind to whether they matched—a marked departure from my usual self. Fashion had always been a quiet passion of mine, one of the many traits my mother despised. “You’re such a diva!” she would say. “I just hope you’re not a queer.” Then, like a thunderclap, the memory struck me—a moment I had long buried in the darkest recess of my mind, now returning with unrelenting force. ---I was thirteen. My parents and Mikey had gone to dine with friends, leaving me behind, nursing the symptoms of a cold. Truth be told, I was relieved to be spared the ordeal. Their friends’ sons never failed to torment me, mocking my love for art while praising cars and military exploits as the only worthy pursuits of "real men." Perhaps it was because I had never felt like a real man. I cherished my delicate, feminine traits, and not even my mother’s derision could strip them from me. Left to my own devices, I wandered into my parents’ bathroom, which was attached to their bedroom, where I found my mother’s cosmetics bag tucked away in a drawer. With trembling hands, I dabbed a touch of blush onto my cheeks and gazed at my reflection. Beautiful. The face staring back at me felt so much more like my own. Carefully, I applied a coat of red lipstick. Gorgeous. Emboldened, I ventured into my mother’s closet and found the dress—an exquisite piece reminiscent of the early 1890s. Long and pale red, it was adorned with dark red roses in an intricate pattern. I paired it with a matching hat before returning to the bathroom to admire my reflection in the full-length mirror. Enchanting. It might have been the very first time in my life when I looked in the mirror and liked what I saw. Then, the sound of footsteps on the stairs shattered my reverie. It was too late. Whoever was ascending was already at the top, the bedroom door mere steps from the staircase. “Donna, come here!” my father called sharply when he saw me. My mother arrived moments later, her reaction instant and violent. She screamed and wept, her hysteria spiraling into a full-blown panic. My father, seething, tore the dress from my body, and for the first time, I felt the sting of his belt against my bare skin. Amidst the chaos, I remember Mikey trying to intervene, only for my mother to shove him away and call me a pervert. The rest dissolved into a blur, a haze of shame and pain that would haunt me for years to come. —-Tears welled in my eyes as the memory clawed its way back to the forefront of my mind. The ache it left in its wake deepened when I remembered it was a working day, and my presence would soon be required at the university. With a heavy heart and even heavier limbs, I made my way downstairs. Spotting a bottle of whiskey on the table, I seized it without thought and tipped it back, swallowing what must have been the equivalent of two generous doubles in one go. “For God’s sake, Gerard. Just look at you,” Mikey said from his seat at the breakfast table, his voice laced with worry as he paused mid-bite.“I’m okay. Trust me! I need to go to work.” I made a move toward the exit door, my intent clear, but Mikey stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “You’re clearly not okay. You’ve just downed half a bottle instead of breakfast, and your eyes are red from crying. And where’s the Gerard who cared about every tiny detail when picking his outfits, hmm? God, you look worse than you did after Hayley’s passing...” “Well, thank you very much—that’s so kind of you,” I snapped. “Gee, please,” Mikey said, his voice softening. “I didn’t mean it like that. It hurts to see you like this. Please, call the university and tell them you’re unwell. Stay here with me. I don’t want you being alone right now.” “But Bert—he’ll figure out why I’m not there. He’ll use it against me!” “And you know what else he could use against you? Showing up drunk, that’s what,” Mikey countered, his voice sounded tinged with desperation. “Gerard, please, listen to me. It’s breaking my heart to see you like this...” I caught the glimmer of a tear sliding down his cheek, and something inside me cracked. As much as I had stopped caring for my own well-being, I couldn’t stand to see Mikey like this. Watching him cry—it was unbearable. "Okay,” I relented with a faint smile. “I’ll call in sick. On one condition—make that casserole I love for tea tonight?” “Will do,” Mikey replied and pulled me into a tight hug. —-We whiled away the whole of the day setting my brother’s home library to rights—he possessed a positively prodigious collection of books on various branches of medicine, haphazardly strewn upon the shelves with nary a care. Thus, we resolved to arrange them according to subject, ensuring he might ever know precisely where to lay his hands upon the volume he required. Once we had finished, he very kindly set about preparing for me my favourite dish, just as I had requested earlier.“Thank you, Mikes. That was absolutely delicious,” I said with genuine appreciation. “Thanks for helping me today, Gee. Hey, I had a thought—maybe you’d like to go to the pictures tonight? A Son of David with Ronald Colman is playing.” “Ronald Colman, huh? Now there’s a handsome one. We shall go.” “I knew you wouldn’t need much convincing,” Mikey chuckled. At the cinema, though, I found it impossible to focus on the film, despite the undeniable charm and beauty of the actor in the starring role. Instead, an idea began to take shape in my mind, tugging at my thoughts persistently. When the film ended, I returned briefly to my own home to gather some additional clothes for my stay at Mikey’s. But before I left, I paused, an urge compelling me to make a single call. “Hello, Ray? Would it be alright if I came to visit you in London this weekend?”
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CHAPTER 7 Our Lady of Sorrows
Frank’s POV
It had been three days since the accident at the pub, and my head was nearly back to normal. To be honest, I was starting to want to return to work, figuring it might help distract me from the endless back-and-forth in my mind. One moment, I’d be furious at Gerard for letting Bert take me, and the next, I’d catch sight of one of his doodles in my sketchbook or catch a whiff of the soap that smelled like his cologne, and my resolve would crumble. I’d be ready to forgive him all over again. For now, I had to settle for a book to escape the mental torture. Sitting at the table in my kitchen, I poured myself a glass of dry red wine I’d found tucked away in a cabinet and resumed reading Dracula. The story had barely begun to draw me in when a knock at the door interrupted my quiet evening. “Evening, Frank. I hope I’m not bothering you at this late hour?” Brendon greeted me with a polite smile. “Oh, no, not at all,” I replied, surprised to see him standing there at ten o’clock at night. “I just finished my shift and thought I’d check on you. How’s your head?” “It’s much better, thank you.” “I spoke with Harry. The man who hit you won’t be allowed in the pub during your shifts. But if I were you,” he said, his tone shifting to something sterner, “I’d avoid wearing the handkerchief there. You do understand that, in places like that, it’s not just a fashion statement, Frank—it’s a death wish.” His serious gaze locked onto mine. “I… Well, I understand. It won’t happen again,” I stammered, feeling my heartbeat quicken under the weight of his scrutiny. His eyes, calm yet piercing, held a kind of authority that made me acutely aware of the power he wielded. He could arrest me if he wanted to—what was stopping him? For the first time, the true danger of my mission struck me. How easily everything could unravel. The thought sent a wave of anger toward Gerard surging through me again, and combined with the wine warming my blood, it emboldened me to take a risk. I stepped aside, letting Brendon in. If I was going to walk this precarious path, I might as well do so with purpose.
“If he’s going to arrest me, he’s going to do that either way.”
“Do you want to come in?” I asked, my voice steady despite the apprehension bubbling beneath the surface. “I was planning to head home, but if you insist…” Brendon’s expression softened, his smile easy and inviting. “Be my guest.” I stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter. Once in the kitchen, I poured him a glass of wine, trying to ignore the unease settling in my chest. As we sat down, something about his appearance caught my attention. He wasn’t in his usual work uniform but instead wore a well-tailored, expensive suit. The thought crossed my mind immediately—he lied to me. Then I noticed a red handkerchief peeking out from his pocket, the bold color unmistakable. He came here on purpose.The conversation started awkwardly, both of us navigating the strange dynamic between us. But after two glasses of wine, it began to flow more easily, the alcohol loosening both our tongues. “Well,” I said, feeling my inhibitions slip away with the wine, “you mentioned it was dangerous to wear red handkerchiefs, and yet, you’re wearing one yourself. How come?” Brendon leaned back in his chair, a confident grin spreading across his face. “See,” he began, “the difference is that I hold a lot of power. I’m the highest-ranked policeman in London, my family is filthy rich, and my father is friends with Churchill. There are certain things only the chosen are allowed to do.” His smirk and the nonchalant arrogance in his tone churned my stomach. The blatant injustice of it all made me feel sick. My thoughts flashed to Gerard—the fear in his eyes when Bert threatened to expose us. The guilt I had been trying to push away surged back with force. I understood now. Gerard had let me go out of fear, the same fear that kept me from standing up to Bert. And it was because of people like Brendon—people drunk on power and privilege, too comfortable to use their influence to help those without it. “I see,” I said quietly, forcing a faint smile and holding back tears that threatened to spill over. “Well, Frank, I should get going,” Brendon said, rising from his chair. “I have work early tomorrow, and it’s getting quite late. I’ll see you at Three Cheers.” He leaned in and placed a quick peck on my cheek before heading toward the door. “Yeah, see you there. Have a good night,” I replied, my smile strained and unnatural. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the composure I had been clinging to shattered. Tears streamed down my face as the weight of it all settled over me—the helplessness, the injustice, and the guilt that refused to let me go.
Gerard’s POV
“Did you call in sick?” Mikey asked, setting his newspaper aside as I stepped into the kitchen. “Yeah,” I replied, grabbing a mug from the cupboard. “Luckily, it wasn’t Bert who picked up. I don’t have to go back until after the weekend.” “Good,” he said, a look of relief washing over his face. “I’m really glad you did it. Speaking of the weekend, there’s a small party at Pete’s. It would be nice if you went with me.” “Well…” I hesitated, searching for the right words to break the news. “I won’t be here. My train leaves in three hours.” “Your train?” His brows furrowed in suspicion. “Gerard, tell me I’m wrong and you’re not going to London.” “I’m not!” The words spilled out too quickly, the defensive tone betraying the truth. “Gee, you’re asking for trouble,” Mikey said, his voice low and steady, his gaze locking onto mine. I sighed, defeated. “Alright, fine. I am going to London, but not to look for Frank.” I raised my hands in mock surrender. “You remember Ray, right? He still lives there, and I thought paying him a visit would do me good. I promise I won’t try to find Frank.” Mikey studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he shook his head. “I’m not sure I believe you, brother, but I can’t stop you. I can only beg you to be careful.” “I will. I promise,” I said, though the words felt hollow even as I spoke them. With a weak smile and a hurried goodbye, I left the room to prepare for my trip, the weight of Mikey’s concern lingering like a shadow over my plans.———— “Gerard, long time no see!” Ray’s warm greeting welcomed me at the station. It felt like time had frozen for him—he looked just as I remembered. Tall, solidly built, with dark curly hair and that ever-comforting smile that made the world seem a little less daunting. “It’s so good to see you! Thanks for letting me stay on such short notice,” I replied, smiling back. For the first time in what felt like ages, I was genuinely happy. “Think nothing of it,” Ray said with a dismissive wave. “My wife’s taken the kids to the States for Christmas. They won’t be back for another month, so I can definitely use the company of an old friend.” Ray’s home was a charming townhouse in a posh London neighborhood. He worked as a horse trainer, a job that, when done for the right people, paid extraordinarily well. And though Ray often grumbled about the eccentricities of the Royal Family, it was clear the perks of his profession outweighed the drawbacks. We spent the rest of the day catching up over glasses of whisky, reminiscing about the good old days. “And how have you been, Gerard? Got anyone special in your life at the moment?” Ray asked after a while. The joy of our reunion faltered. My chest tightened as I tried to answer. “There is someone, but…” The words stuck in my throat. Tears began to roll down my cheeks, unbidden and unstoppable. “Gee, you know you can talk to me about anything, right?” Ray’s smile returned, steadying me just a little. It was that same reassuring grin that had gotten me through so many rough patches before. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone. Not even your wife. This is a matter of security.” Ray nodded solemnly, his gaze unwavering, and I told him everything. When I finished, he shook his head in disbelief. “Jesus… Gerard, we should go to the police!” “No,” I said, my voice firm despite the trembling in my hands. “What would I even say? That my ex-lover, a man, took my current lover, also a man, as blackmail? They’d either laugh at me or arrest me for being a queer. And even if they believed me, it’s the fucking Shelby’s we’re talking about. The police are afraid of them. Either Frank or I—or both of us—would end up dead.” Ray sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping. “I hate to admit it, but you’re probably right. Still, you can stay here as long as you need. If it helps, even a little, it’s yours.” “Thanks,” I murmured, pulling him into a hug. “You’re the best.” That night, for the first time since Bert had taken Frank, I slept soundly. Being around Mikey helped, but nothing soothed my soul like time spent with Ray. The relief didn’t last. The next morning, after Ray left for work, I was alone with my thoughts again. The weight of knowing I was in the same city as Frank but unable to search for him grew unbearable. It became worse when I realized I’d forgotten my bromide at home. “Fuck.” Panic gripped me as my breathing quickened. Desperately, I scoured Ray’s kitchen cabinets until I found a bottle of Scotch, but something told me it wouldn’t help. My heart raced as I threw on my coat, grabbed the keys to Ray’s car, and drove aimlessly until I arrived at the church where me and Ray had sang in a choir during our college times, more for fun that anything else really—the Church of Our Lady of Sorrows in Paddington. It felt like the only place where I might find a shred of peace—or perhaps an answer to the chaos consuming me.
Frank’s POV
It was my last day off before I had to return to work, and staying cooped up at home had become unbearable. The walls seemed to close in on me, amplifying the restless hum of my thoughts. I decided to venture out and see more of the city—something, anything, to distract me. The weather was mild, crisp enough for a scarf but not bitter. A long walk felt like just the thing. I meandered through Kensington Gardens, letting the serene beauty of the place wash over me. The park was alive with people who seemed untouched by the kind of struggles that haunted me. Families laughed as children tossed crumbs to the ducks. Girls sat on benches, gossiping and giggling, their cheeks pink from the chill. An elderly couple strolled hand in hand, their pace slow but steady. “They all seem to have such normal lives,” I thought, watching them with a pang of longing. “Will I ever be able to live like that? A life where I’m not constantly looking over my shoulder or drowning in memories that won’t let me go?” Time slipped away as I lingered, lost in my thoughts. By the time I realized how long I’d been there, the sun had dipped below the horizon, and the air had grown sharply colder. The chill nipped at my skin through my coat. “I need to get inside somewhere before heading home, or I’ll catch my death out here,” I muttered to myself. I glanced around, weighing my options, but dread settled in as I remembered the state of my wallet. “Fuck it. I don’t have any cash left.” I debated braving the cold and trudging home when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a small brick building. It stood quietly in the distance, dimly lit against the growing dark. It looked like a church—or something close to it. Desperate for warmth, I approached.
Our Lady of Sorrows
Catholic Church Paddington
The sign read.
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CHAPTER 8 Just like Heaven
Frank’s POV
The church wasn’t the warmest place on Earth, but at least I escaped the wind. It was pretty small with two rows of benches on each side and an altar in the front. It was rather dark inside, with only some candles burning here at there. I chose a bench near the candles to at least warm my hands by them. It seemed that I was alone.I looked at the figure of the crucified Jesus at the altar. My family was Catholic, but they never really paid attention to religion. It felt more of “it just looks better when you go to church” than really believing in it. Did I believe in God? Before the war, maybe. I liked to think there was something, someone bigger than me whom I could turn to. But the war took it all away. It took away my father, with whom I had been really close. It took away Gabrielle. It took away so many lives of innocent people. I thought of Gerard, his life wasn’t free of tragedies either. If God existed, why did He let Gerard’s wife die? Why did He take away their son? And why is He taking Gerard away from me? I felt a wave of anger flow through my veins. I stood up.“Who do you think you are, huh? If you’re so good, then why war, why premature death, why take away my love from me? Why would you do that?! It all makes me think that You are nothing but a myth, a fairytale for people to make them think their life makes sense. Fuck you, Jesus! If you really exist, give me a sign. Now. At this very moment!” I yelled and cried till I almost choked with my tears. “Frankie?” I froze. “Frankie, is that you?” I turned to the side the voice was coming from. The dim light barely allowed me to see anything more than a shadow figure, but I’d recognize him everywhere, even only by his shadow. Slowly, carefully, I went to the very front bench in the left row.“This isn’t real. It’s not real, it cannot be real.” But it was. There he stood. As beautiful as always. The candlelight made him look angelic, as if he was supposed to be a painting on the church’s wall. He pulled me into a tight hug.“I wish you would never let me go again. I wish we could stay like this forever. Just you and me, against the world.” I said, swallowing my tears - tears of anger turned into tears of happiness.“I know, angel, I know. Me too” Gerard said and placed a small kiss on my forehead. “Maybe it really is a sign from God.”I smiled and put my hand in his soft, black hair. “Maybe God exists, after all.” “What are you doing in London? Did you… You know it’s dangerous, right?” My joy quickly turned into fear.“Hey, angel, you’re shaking.” Gerard remarked.It started when I was twenty. One of my closest friends tried to end his life and I was the one to find him. When I saw him on the floor choking on his own vomit, my body reacted by involuntarily shaking. And it has reacted like that to stress ever since. I managed to drive him to the hospital on time and save his life but he never talked to me again after that. It definitely left a scar on my psyche and deepened my fear of being abandoned.“I am sorry, I just… I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”Gerard cupped my face with his hands. “I used to sing in a church choir in this church when I was still a student.”“One more thing we have in common” I said with a faint smile. “I mean, my choir was in Birmingham, but you know what I mean.”“One more thing we have in common.” He repeated after me. “There’s a choir practice room in the back. They never close the door, if nothing’s changed.”I looked at him and saw his soft smile change to a smirk. That look on his face suddenly made all of my sorrows disappear. I pulled him into a deep, passionate kiss. He tasted like whisky and cigarettes. I was lost. Gerard took my hand and led me to a couloir on the side of the church. Before we entered inside, I gave a small look to the figure of Jesus at the altar. “If this really is a sign from you, then maybe you don’t hate the fairies?” Gerard pulled me into a middle sized room what appeared to be a magazine and a practice space for the choir. There were violins in cases, each with a different name of it, what I assumed to be the names of people who played each instrument, tossed in a corner. By the wall, there lay sheets of music and choir pieces lyrics, neatly stacked in piles.I felt that my lust was overwhelming me. In my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwining, defenseless and silent.
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CHAPTER 9 The Foundations of Decay
Gerard’s POV
The church appeared just as I remembered it. Its modest size, coupled with the dim glow of the candlelight, gave it a sense of warmth and intimacy. It brought back memories of the good times I shared with Ray in the choir—sneaking liquor into rehearsals, singing in ridiculous voices just to vex the choirmaster. "I miss my pre-war self… And I miss Frankie. How come with him I can feel as if the war had never happened?” I thought. Before the war, despite the hardships I’d endured under my parents’ roof, I still possessed some semblance of joy and innocence, especially when I was with Ray. And then, I met Hayley. That was the first time I truly believed I loved someone, the first time I truly felt loved. But then the day came. 4th of August, 1914.***
4th August 1914,
“Darling, move to the side so I don't clout you with the champagne cork!” Hayley laughed, her red locks gleaming in the moonlight.“Here’s to many more years together,” I said, lifting my glass.“Cheers, darling. To many more years together.” Hayley replied, kissing me with a passion that made my heart race.We sat on the terrace of our rented townhouse in Notting Hill. “Life’s good.”The moon began to slip behind the clouds, but we took no notice. We drank champagne, kissed, and savored our anniversary dinner, lovingly prepared by Hayley. Everything felt perfect. But, alas, happiness cannot last forever.The clocks struck the hour of eleven PM."Extra! Extra! Britain declares war on Germany! Read all about it! The Great War has begun!”I froze. Hayley looked at me with wide, fearful eyes, and my heart clenched in response. I took her hand and gripped it tightly, but words failed me.After a moment of hesitation, I tore my gaze from her and walked to the edge of the balcony, still holding her hand.The newsboy’s voice rang out again, now clearer, louder.“Extra! Extra! Britain at war with Germany! The Great War! Read your papers!” A single newsboy stood in the corner, holding a bundle of freshly printed newspapers. His voice echoes from the buildings on an empty street, but not for long. After a short while I saw my neighbors leaving their houses. Not many, in the beginning, just a few— at first I saw Robert, a man in his forties, a musician, one of my favorites here. He left in a dark suit, standing straighter than the last time I had seen him, newspaper in hand. He didn’t even seem to notice that he was gripping it too tightly. His wife, too, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, stepped hesitantly into the street, her face pale under the glow of the gas lamps.In that brief, quiet moment, there was no panic—only the steady realization. The words of the newsboy seemed to echo in the stillness, the gravity of them sinking in, slowly. I could see the shock in their faces, the disbelief that mirrored my own. I glanced back at Hayley, she was still holding my hand and standing just behind me. Her voice was barely above a whisper.“Are you going to volunteer?” She asked. She asked, but she already knew the answer.Just in time, before I even managed to respond, a boy hung a poster on the pole opposite to our house.The poster featured Lord Kitchener with his pointing finger directed at the viewer and the text: “ Your country needs you.” I took her both hands and looked her in the eyes.“I am doing it for us. For our freedom. For our future children to live in a free, safe country.” I said and pulled her into a tight hug.“Will you come back?” Hayley whispered.A feeling of dread flushed over my body. The phantom of the war had been hanging over the country for years but now it was real. At that moment I understood that going to war meant I could never come back. I felt tears coming to my eyes.“I will do anything to come back, honey. I promise.”That night neither of us slept.My hopes of going to the front with Ray or Mikey shattered like glass on the floor of The London Town Hall.Mikey remained in Birmingham, his poor sight preventing him from joining the army. While I longed to share this grim experience with him, there was a part of me that felt relief. At home, he would be safe—at least that was my hope. Ray, on the other hand, was recruited to the home front."Way—Ypres," I overheard.I despised violence and war, but the thought of fighting for a free country, a country where children could grow up with the same joy I hoped for Hayley and me in the future, drove me to enlist. There was also some relief in knowing I wasn’t being sent to the trenches.I was assigned to supply and logistics, what I imagined would be the quieter end of the war. But the work was endless. I carried crates of ammunition, bags of rations, even medical supplies, each one carrying the weight of life and death for the men on the front. The hours bled into each other, the days blending into a continuous blur.After months of this relentless cycle, they finally called us in for a rest. A brief reprieve, they said—a chance to recover, to see family. The thought of London, of Hayley, lifted my spirits. It was only a few weeks, but it was enough. Enough to remind me of why I fought.I spotted her bright ginger hair from the train. She was waiting for me on the platform, so pure, so radiant. My heart sank. I was glad to see her, but something felt off, as if I had lost my spark, my capacity for joy. I did my best to hide it. I couldn’t bear the thought of dimming her almost childlike happiness.We spent our days pretending that everything was normal. We drank whisky, danced the Foxtrot to ragtime in bars, cooked meals, and went on long walks. But I knew it was all an act. She might have known it too, but she wasn’t scarred by the war. I was.The day came too quickly—the day I had to return to the front. The night before, Hayley cooked my favorite meal, roast turkey with bread sauce. We played jazz records on the gramophone, sang, and danced, trying to hold onto what little normalcy we had left.“I missed you so much, every night I’d lay in bed and touch myself thinking of you.”I didn’t respond. Instead, I kissed her neck and licked her ear, enjoying the small moans and whispers she made.“You’re so wet already, is it me that makes you so wet?” I asked playfully.She took my hand and pushed my two fingers inside her.“Taste me”.I took my fingers out and licked her sweetness. “Take your clothes off.” I said in a commanding tone. “And lay down on your back.”"I like it when you are like this. When you give orders in a tone that brooks no argument. I am yours. Do with me as you wish."I never gave it much consideration, but something deep down told me that taking the lead in the bedroom offered a fleeting sense of control, a semblance of mastery I never truly grasped in the world outside.“Yeah? You’re such a good girl for me.” I whispered and pushed my cock inside her.I didn’t last long, neither did she.“I missed this. We need to do that more when you’re back.” Hayley smirked.“We do.” I smiled, doing my best to hide the fact, that despite I felt pleasure, I couldn’t enjoy it as I had before the war. I knew that a part of me had died. Next day, she walked me to the station early in the morning.“Goodbye, Gerard. Can’t wait till you’re back.”“If I’m back.” I lay a kiss on her lips. “Goodbye Hayley. I love you.”Little did I know, that was the last time I’d ever see her. It wasn’t long after I returned to Belgium that I was informed they were deploying me to France. The words echoed in my ears, like dirt you can’t scrub away. The trenches. They were sending more men to the front, desperate for bodies to fill the gaps left by the fallen. Even those of us in supply roles weren’t safe. But something about hearing it—about the finality in the officer’s voice as he read the orders—struck me hard. I was being pulled back into the storm.France was different. Not like Belgium. The air here was thick, heavy with the stench of death and decay. The trenches stretched endlessly, a grotesque maze of mud, barbed wire, and blood. But still, there was that pull in the air—a sense of inevitability that you couldn’t escape, no matter how hard you tried. I’d been trained—or at least told—that war was an abstract thing. You read about it, heard whispers in the dark corners of the world. But when you’re standing in the muck, gunfire crackling around you, it’s no longer an idea. It’s real. Too real. Raw. You could taste it, feel it, smell it.A few months later, I received a letter from Hayley. She was pregnant. It was the first time since the war began that I felt a real spark of joy. But as with all good things, it was fleeting. Not long after, I received another letter. My heart leaped as I opened it, hoping it would announce the birth of our first child. The first sign that something was amiss was the envelope—not in Hayley’s hand, but her mother’s.“Maybe she’s just too tired after giving birth?” I told myself.I opened the letter carefully.
“Dear Gerard,
It saddens me to be the bearer of such terrible news, especially at a time like this, when you’re facing the horrors of war in the trenches.
I know how much you loved Hayley and how happy you were about her carrying your baby. It breaks my heart to tell you that Hayley passed away during childbirth, and so did your son. They will both be buried at Key Hill Cemetery.
I am sending you all my love and strength. You are so brave, and I’m glad Hayley spent the last years of her life with you.
Wishing you all the best,
Mary”
Like before, when part of me died, now it felt as though everything in me had died. I couldn’t even cry. I felt empty, numb. The grief didn’t come. I’d gotten used to the sight of bodies on the battlefield, or the occasional corpse in the trenches. Where once they’d made me weep, now they evoked nothing.That is, until I met Frank.
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Chapter 10 There is a Hell, believe me I’ve seen it, there is a Heaven, let’s keep it a secret
Gerard’s POV
I closed the door softly behind us. We stood, gazing at one another, neither finding words to break the silence. Tentatively, I brushed his cheek with my thumb, my touch light as air. After what felt an eternity, I finally spoke. “Frank? Frankie, what are you doing here?” “I caught cold on my walk, and this was the closest place. I stepped in to warm myself before heading home. I can scarce believe it’s truly you,” he whispered. “I can hardly believe it myself. I’ve missed you so terribly! How have you been? How… how is he treating you?” I asked, though dread coiled in my chest, uncertain I wished to hear the answer. “You know of this? God, Gerard. I pray you don’t find yourself in trouble over it,” Frank said, his worry plain to see. “My brother’s… friend is an informant. But let us not delve into that now. I’ll share everything when this nightmare is behind us. For now, tell me, I beg you—are you safe?” “I am, in a manner of speaking. Regarding that, at least. He’s… I don’t know. He seems kind.” The words struck me like a blade. I stared at him, unable to muster a response. “Gerard, I didn’t mean it that way! Please, don’t think ill of me. What I meant is… he seems attentive, which is good for now, isn’t it? That’s his role, is it not? But all I can think of is when this will finally end. When we can be together. Tell me, do you—will you still want me when it’s all over? After I’ve been with someone else?” His voice faltered, breaking, and with it, my heart. Without hesitation, I pulled him into a fierce embrace, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. Tears burned down my cheeks, hot and unbidden. “Of course, Frankie. Don’t ever speak of such a thing again!” I said, my voice thick with emotion. He was so pure, so undeserving of this torment—it shattered me utterly. “It’s I who ought to be asking the question. After I allowed Bert to take you, after all you’ve had to endure… I was certain you’d hate me, Frankie. Certain of it.” “I was angry.” His words struck with cruel precision, though I knew he spoke of the past. “But I came to understand it was fear that drove you. And I know, deep down, you would never wish to hurt me,” Frank said, his voice tinged with both sorrow and the faintest glimmer of hope. “I would never. I also just want this to be over, you know Frankie? I will never let you go once it is.” I said and kissed him. He deepened the kiss, exploring my mouth with his soft tongue. I felt the world around us disappear. Fear, guilt, sadness - it all suddenly became replaced by warmth and lust. Frank seemed to feel the same, as he dropped to his knees and unbuttoned my pants. He looked so beautiful like this, kneeling on the floor with his puppy eyes and messy, dark hair. He spit on his hand and wrapped it around my cock. I had to cover my mouth with my hand, because I couldn’t help a moan escape me. He started stroking me, first just the head, then the full length. Then, I felt him kiss me and take me into his mouth. It was so warm and wet and filled me with so much desire. I put my hand in my lover’s soft hair and carefully guided his movements, our eye contact not breaking. “Does that feel nice?” He asked me, drool dripping from his mouth. “Frankie, you have no idea what you’re doing to me.” It was so wrong for so many reasons. I was with my lover with, whom I should’t be seeing now under any circumstances, a man, and we were in a church. But for something that would probably put me in Hell when my days are over, this felt like Heaven, so I pushed my guilt away and focused on Frankie’s warm lips on my cock. Suddenly, our moment of bliss was shattered by the sound of something falling. My heart ceased its rhythm. Frank leapt to his feet, a look of worry upon his face. I cast my gaze around the room. The violins, once neatly arranged, now lay scattered upon the floor. Then I spied the culprit—a small, black cat perched atop one of the instruments. “Look, Frankie! It’s only a cat. No cause for alarm.” “Thank the heavens. I thought it was the end of us both. Look at him—he’s adorable! Just like you, Gerard. Soft and lovely.” I felt my cheeks warm at his words, my heart still pounding. Though reassured that it was merely a church cat, unease lingered. I hadn’t any notion how long we’d been there, and anxiety crept in. I feared for Frank, not wanting him to land in trouble. Our eyes met, an unspoken understanding passing between us. “I’d best be off, Gee. But… how long are you to remain in London? I know it’s forbidden, but I can’t endure much longer without seeing you.” “Let us meet here at six o’clock in the evening in a week, Thursday that is. You leave first, just to be safe. We mustn’t risk being seen leaving together.” Once he’d departed, I carefully returned the violins to their proper places. Soon after, I made my way home, the memory of his presence lingering with me.
Frank’s POV
My entire walk back was consumed with thoughts of Gerard. I felt an overwhelming need to see him once more; naught else in the world mattered. I must see him, come what may. When I at last reached my home, the whirlwind of emotions ebbed away, leaving me utterly spent. I resolved to take a bath come morning and fell into slumber the moment I changed and lay upon my bed. That night, I dreamt of being back at Gerard’s house. We laughed and conversed endlessly, the way we did our first night together. It all seemed so vivid, so real, and I awoke disheartened by the cruel reality. My spirits sank further when I recalled that it was my first day back at work. ---The shift proved rather uneventful. Two men quarreled and came to blows, but they promptly carried their dispute outside, and I decided it was no concern of mine. All seemed to progress smoothly, and I scarcely thought of why I toiled in that place at all. That was, until a figure known throughout Birmingham as Johnny Dogs entered the pub. “Scotch. With ice,” said he. Johnny was a man of advancing years, perhaps in his sixties. His face bore a genial air, but I knew it to be but a mask. None who ran with the Shelby lot could be called a decent man. I poured the Scotch and silently hoped he would leave, but instead, he settled at the bar, his eyes fixed on me all the while. “Sir, we’ll soon be closing,” I said, feigning indifference to his presence. “I’m aware. I’m waiting until you’re done, lad,” he replied with a smile. I returned his smile, though my pulse quickened. Once my shift was over, I changed in the modest room behind the bar and stepped out into the night, and Johnny followed. He offered me a cigarette, which I accepted, hoping it might steady my nerves. Lighting one for himself, he remarked: “There’s been a change in plans. Tell me you’ve softened the officer up nicely by now?” “It’s been going well,” I replied, taking a long drag from the cigarette. Damn it all. “You see, we’ve had to adjust our approach. The operation’s set for New Year’s Eve. Your task is to ensure the man’s out of town that night. Thomas has already seen to the arrangements. You’re taking the officer to the seaside; the hotel is booked and paid for. The reservation is under your name. All you’ve to do is convince him to go along. You strike me as clever enough for the task, eh?” He handed me a sheet of paper with the hotel’s particulars. “Yes, thank you. I’ll manage.” He clapped me on the arm and departed, leaving me alone with rising dread. Two and a half weeks? Damn it all to hell. I hurried home. Please, let him be awake! When Brendon had visited that night, he’d left his landline number. I dialed it without hesitation. “Hello?” “Frank? Has something happened?” “Yes,” I faltered. Why did I just say it? No, nothing's wrong! “No, no, nothing’s wrong. I just… wanted to hear your voice.” I infused my tone with sweetness, loathing myself for it. “I’ve been thinking of you as well, sweetheart. As it happens, I was planning to attend the races this weekend. Would you care to join me?” “The races? It would be my pleasure.” God help me, it truly isn’t. Yet, things appeared to be progressing more smoothly than I had anticipated. “Splendid. I’ll stop by Three Cheers tomorrow to discuss the details. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I must return to bed. Goodnight, Frank.” “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I hadn’t meant to wake you. I only…” I paused, crafting the perfect response. “Missed you.” The words tasted foul in my mouth. I detested the lies, the necessity of them. “You’re a dear one. Until tomorrow, then.” I scarcely slept that night, plagued by visions of the weekend to come and the trials awaiting me at the races.
Gerard’s POV
When I arrived at Ray’s, he was already at home. “Gerard? Good heavens, have you been crying?” he called, his voice coming from the kitchen. “No!” I retorted, though his look betrayed disbelief. “Well, yes, all right. I have.” “Wherever have you been?” Ray set aside his reading spectacles, concern etched upon his visage. “I… well, I was at the church. The one where we used to sing. I needed to clear my mind, and of late, it seemed the soundest notion.” My companion looked momentarily startled, but his expression swiftly softened into that familiar, genial smile of his—one that never failed to soothe me. “Whisky?” I nodded and took a chair across from him. “Are you intending to remain in London for the weekend?” Ray asked, the smile still present. “I rather think so. Why?” “One of the horses I’ve been training is to run this Saturday. It’s an indoor race, quite a fine affair held every year in mid-December. I thought it might serve as a pleasant diversion for you.” “Goodness, I haven’t been to the races in an age. I’d dearly enjoy going with you,” I said, taking a sip of my drink. Perhaps he’s right. A touch of exhilaration at the races could indeed do me good.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
CHAPTER 11 Off to the races
FRANK’S POV
I awoke early. It was Saturday. The Saturday—the day of the races. Brendon was to collect me at ten o’clock sharp. I took a brisk bath, shaved close, and donned my finest suit. There stood a coffeehouse just beside my lodgings, so I stopped in for a light breakfast—a cup of strong black coffee and a sweet scone. Upon stepping out, I spied Brendon’s motorcar already idling at the curb. "Good morning, Frank," Brendon greeted me, pressing a brief kiss to my cheek. A shudder of revulsion coursed through me. Handsome as he was, I could not shake the memory of his words—how he could afford to be open about his unnatural inclinations simply because he wielded power. Even so, I had a part to play. "Morning," I replied, forcing the most amiable smile I could muster. The journey was long—an hour and a half, at least. Brendon filled the time prattling on about his work, indulging himself in an endless stream of anecdotes. I merely nodded and smiled where appropriate, content to let him bask in his own importance. He struck me as the sort of man who relished being the centre of attention, and I had no inclination to vie for it. "We’ve arrived. I daresay you’ve never been to the races, eh? Not quite the sort of amusement for the lower classes."
What an insufferable prig.
"No, never," I lied smoothly. In truth, my childhood had been punctuated by visits to the races with my parents—our family was a far cry from the working class. But Brendon wasn’t to know that. He seemed to derive great satisfaction from the notion of me as some rough, uneducated lad—a poor boy labouring in a pub, plucked from obscurity by a man of means and standing. I saw no reason to disabuse him of his illusion. "Three o’clock sharp," the officer instructed our chauffeur. The racetrack lay within a vast hall, the very air thrumming with excitement and anticipation. The familiar rush of adrenaline stirred within me, a relic of childhood excursions. Everywhere, men and women were attired in their finest. The ladies floated past in elegant frocks and wide-brimmed hats, while the gentlemen cut sharp figures in well-tailored suits, their heads crowned with fedoras or peaky caps. —-"Here we are—that’s where we shall sit," Brendon declared as we stepped into the VIP lodge. "A drink?" It was still early, and I hesitated for a moment, but one glance at the policeman’s face told me that refusal was not an option. Reluctantly, I accepted his offer. "I always place a wager, and today shall be no exception," he said with a self-satisfied grin. "I’ll teach you how it’s done properly, Frankie. And don’t trouble yourself over the money—I shall cover us both, sweet thing." Whiskey in hand, we soon placed our bets, and before long, the first race commenced. Watching the horses thunder down the track had ever been my favourite part of the spectacle. Such magnificent creatures, so full of power and grace. As a child, I had dreamt of being the one upon the saddle, feeling the wind rush past as I urged my steed to victory. But my health had never permitted me to pursue riding professionally, much to my dismay—for with my small frame, I would have made a perfect jockey. Two more glasses of whiskey followed, and soon enough, I felt the pressing need to excuse myself. I could hardly wait for the race to conclude. "Don’t keep me waiting too long, sweet thing," Brendon murmured as I rose from my seat. The whiskey had me feeling light-headed, and finding myself alone in the lavatory, I began to hum a familiar tune from the pub. A song I had sung countless times before. Then, abruptly, I heard the door open, and I fell silent. As I stepped out of the stall to wash my hands, my breath caught in my throat. Reflected in the mirror was his face. Again.The face that haunted my dreams each night. Angelic, beautiful. My heart thundered in my chest. "Frankie?" His voice trembled with disbelief. "God above—I can scarcely believe my luck." "Nor I!" I managed, my voice breaking as tears of joy welled in my eyes. "It would seem fate is determined to bring us together." He said nothing more. Instead, he seized me by the wrist, pulled me into one of the stalls, and kissed me with desperate fervour. His lips were intoxicating—whiskey and cigarettes, lust and love. His fingers tangled in my hair, his tongue tracing mine with an urgency that sent shivers down my spine. I gasped as he pulled away. "It’s too dangerous here, Frankie," he murmured. "The race has ended—people will be coming in at any moment. Six o’clock, Thursday, at the church. I shall be thinking of you until then—of the sweetness of your lips upon mine." With a final, lingering glance, he slipped away, sorrow written across his face. "You’re always on my mind, Gee," I whispered, my voice barely carrying above the din of the crowd now filtering into the lavatory. "Always." And just like that, he was gone.---I lingered there a moment, steadying myself, willing the tears to cease. With a deep breath, I lifted my gaze to the looking glass. Right then, I don’t look too dreadful. Composing myself as best I could, I made my way back to the VIP lodge. "You missed the finish," Brendon remarked as I stepped inside. "Our horse came in first." "Oh, splendid! A shame I wasn’t here to see it." I forced a smile. "Surprisingly, there was a queue—that’s why I took so long." Brendon merely nodded and gestured towards the table. "Here, I got us some more whiskey." "I think I’m quite all right for now," I attempted, hoping to refuse. Brendon’s expression darkened ever so slightly—just enough to signal that no was not an acceptable response. "Drink up, Frankie. It’s all part of the fun." Reluctantly, I took the glass from him, bringing it to my lips and allowing myself only the smallest sip. Brendon, well into his cups, shifted closer, his inhibitions dulled by liquor. His usual smirk faltered, replaced by something unreadable—but whatever it was, I did not like it in the least. "What’s that scent on you, Frank?" His tone was measured, but there was a sharp edge to it. My stomach lurched. Gerard had always favoured a heavy hand with cologne, and every time I was near him, the scent clung to my clothes. "It’s nothing of concern," I replied quickly. "Just my soap." I forced another smile, remembering that the soap I had in my London house smelled just like Gerard’s perfume. "Soap?" Brendon’s brows knitted together. "On your clothes?" His fingers twisted in the fabric of my collar, yanking me towards him. "Don’t bloody well lie to me." His breath was thick with whiskey. "What is it, then? Does the pub not pay you well enough? Are you whoring yourself on the side? Is that why you took so long—off somewhere on your knees for some bastard?" Panic gripped me, my mind scrambling for an explanation. "I… No—no, it’s not that," I stammered. "There was a gentleman beside me at the sink—spraying himself with cologne. He stood rather close, so I expect some of it settled on my clothes. But I swear, I didn’t lie about the soap—it does have a strong scent. If you don’t believe me, you’re welcome to come over and check for yourself." My voice wavered, but I clung to what composure I could muster."I swear—I have never sold myself." Brendon studied me for a moment, his fingers still curled in my shirt. Then, at last, he released me. "Let’s say I believe you," he muttered. "But from now on, there’ll be rules." I swallowed hard but maintained a calm exterior. "From this day forth, you’ll be living with me," Brendon continued, his voice low and deliberate. "My chauffeur will collect you from Three Cheers at the end of each shift, so I expect you to hand me your weekly schedule. You’re not to leave the house without me. You’re a pretty one, Frankie. I’m sure many a man would fancy that sweet little face of yours. And I don’t like to share. Unless, of course, you’ve merely been toying with me and have no interest at all, eh?" A lump formed in my throat. "Six o’clock in the church on Thursday. Six o’clock in the church on Thursday." Gerard’s words echoed through my mind like a hymn, over and over again.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
By some miracle, I managed to keep the tears at bay. But I could not shake the image of Gerard and me in the choir practice room, the warmth of his touch, the quiet reverence of it all. I became lost in it, untethered from the present—until Brendon’s voice cut through the haze, sharp as a blade through my chest, dragging me back to the cold, wretched reality before me. "Answer me!" Brendon’s voice cut through the air, sharp and unrelenting. "Have you been leading me on?" "No, I haven’t, I swear it." "Good. That’s precisely the answer I wanted to hear." He grinned, his expression triumphant. "Well then, do you understand the rules, pretty boy?" "I do. I’m glad to be spending more time with you from now on." I forced the words out, praying they sounded convincing. Fortune favoured me then—the bell announcing the next race rang out just as I finished speaking, granting me a reprieve. Brendon turned his attention to the track, engrossed in the spectacle before him. I followed suit, though my eyes may have been on the horses, my mind was elsewhere—lost in thoughts of Gerard. --- "So, Frank," Brendon mused as our journey home began, "tell me more about yourself."
Dear Lord, Iero, you bloody fool. You ought to have put more thought into your London persona instead of daydreaming about Gerard’s cock.
"I come from Birmingham," I began, cautiously. "No siblings. My father fell in the war, so it’s just me and my mother now. I came to London for work—the pay here is better than back home. My wages come weekly, so I send a portion to my mother whenever I can. As for the war… my health has always been too fragile for military service." "Oh, a delicate little thing, working so hard to provide for his dear mother," Brendon murmured, his voice thick with something that sent an unpleasant chill down my spine. He leaned in close, pressing a kiss to the side of my neck. I shuddered, but not from pleasure. "What of your passions, then? Your interests?" His breath was warm against my skin, his tone teasing. "I like music," I offered. "I play the piano. My primary school teacher recognised my talent and taught me free of charge—she knew my family couldn’t afford proper lessons." Lies, all of it. I did, in truth, play the piano, but my education had been anything but modest. I had studied under one of the finest tutors in the country. But that, of course, was not something Brendon needed to know. "Music, you say?" He seemed genuinely pleased. "Marvellous—I’m rather passionate about it myself. Maybe you’ve noticed the piano in my drawing room?" "Yes, I have," I replied, forcing a smile. "Perhaps we might play together sometime?" "We absolutely shall." He beamed. "Ah, before I forget—we’ll be stopping by your lodgings so you may gather your things. As I said before, from tonight onwards, you’ll be living with me.” He said it as though it were a kindness, as though it were not a cage disguised as an invitation. That night, Brendon took me to his bed for the first time. It was nothing—nothing—like it had been with Gerard. There was no tenderness, no warmth. He did not prepare me for him, and little did he care for my comfort. He simply took what he wanted. I buried my face in the cushions, tears soaking into the fabric as I bit back my cries. There was nothing but pain. Nothing but the bitter taste of power wielded without mercy. Nothing at all.
GERARD’S POV
"You look as though you’ve seen a ghost." Ray remarked as I returned from the lavatory. "Close enough. I saw Frank." Ray regarded me for a long moment before asking, "Did you…?" He trailed off, but I understood well enough what he meant. "No. Well… we kissed. That’s all. But there was nobody else about—no one saw us." “Sweet Jesus, Gerard. I do hope you’re right. You’re playing a dangerous game." "I know that, Ray. But I couldn’t stop myself. I… I don’t know. I feel something powerful for him. And this makes it the second time this week I’ve chanced upon him unawares. It’s as though..." I caught my breath, pausing for a moment. "As though we were meant to be together," I murmured."For the love of all that’s holy, don’t go getting yourself killed." ---The races had come to a close, Ray proudly clutching the silver cup he had won for his horse’s victory. Upon our return home, we whiled away the remainder of the day with jazz records and idle conversation. It was easy, pleasant—everything that my mind was not. When at last I retired for the night, I lay awake, my thoughts consumed by Frank. ---Monday arrived, and with it, I resolved to spend my week in preparation for the resumption of my classes in a fortnight’s time. I ventured to the nearest library to procure some books, hoping that scholarly pursuits might serve to distract me—from Frank, from Thursday, from the restless anticipation coiled within me like a snake ready to strike. Yet as Thursday dawned, all resolve crumbled. The books lay untouched; my mind counted nothing but the passing hours until six. Ray returned home just as I was donning my coat. "Where are you off to, Gee?" "Church," I answered simply. "Believe it or not, faith keeps me sane." "To each their own," he replied with a knowing smile, pouring himself a glass of wine. Taking the spare motorcar Ray had so generously lent me during my stay in London, I set off, a strange cocktail of impatience, excitement, and unease bubbling within me. ---The church was empty. I glanced at my pocket watch. Five fifty-eight. Frankie will be here soon, I’m certain. I took my usual place upon the pew, hands clasped together as I waited. A rustling sound sent my heart leaping into my throat. I turned sharply, expecting to see Frankie’s angelic face—but it was only the church cat, padding across the stone floor as it had last time. Six fifteen. The first tendrils of unease crept in. I tried to pray, but my effort was in vain. I kept checking the time. Six thirty. Tears pricked at my eyes. I fought for composure, for reason, but neither would come.
What if something’s happened to him? What if someone saw us in the lavatory? What if Shelby’s men have been watching him—what if they reported to Thomas? What if they’ve hurt him?
Or worse. The thought struck like a hammer-blow. What if he’s dead?The idea lodged itself in my mind like a splinter. I sank to my knees before the altar, my gaze drawn to the sorrowful visage of the Virgin Mary. I tried to pray, to recite The Seven Sorrows of Mary, but the words dissolved into a storm of anguish. Or—perhaps—he had simply chosen not to come. What if Brendon’s affections had grown tolerable? It could be that Frank had found something preferable in the safety of another man’s arms. That notion cut deeper than any blade, but I clung to it nonetheless—for it meant he was alive. And I wanted him to be alive, even if it was not with me. Yet it hurt. My mind churned, shifting between two wretched images—his lifeless body lying discarded in some alleyway, and his lips pressed to another’s, his heart no longer mine to hold. "Why?" My voice cracked as I gazed up at the painted Madonna. "Why would you do this to me?" Grief surged like a flood. "You’ve taken everything from me, everything!" My voice, raw with sorrow, rang through the empty church. I shouted until my throat burned, until there was nothing left in me but exhaustion and despair. I stumbled from the church, climbed into the motorcar, and drove back to Ray’s, my thoughts a jumbled haze of heartbreak and fury. —-"Gerard, are you all right?" Ray’s voice reached me as I entered the house, but I gave no reply—I could not reply. I ascended the stairs in silence, made straight for my bedroom, and fumbled for the packet of sleeping draughts I had purchased some days prior. With shaking hands, I poured a handful into my palm. I staggered to the kitchen, reaching blindly for whatever liquor I could find. A bottle of whiskey stood upon the counter. I seized it, swallowed the pills, and downed half the bottle in one go. After that, all was a blur.—-“Where the fuck am I?" I murmured as my eyes fluttered open, taking in my surroundings. The room was stark white, near empty, save for the bed upon which I lay and a solitary chair. Upon that chair sat Ray. "Gee," he breathed, his face etched with sorrow. "Thank the heavens you've come to! I was beside myself with worry. You collapsed in the kitchen, and I feared—Lord, I feared you wouldn't make it." His voice wavered. "I brought you to the hospital, and they gave you something to counteract the pills. Whatever it was, it did the trick. You're alive, praise be!" His eyes brimmed with tears, and the sight of his distress wrenched at my heart. Memories of the previous night swam hazily before me. I swallowed hard. "Ray, old chap, I'm sorry—dreadfully sorry. Please, forgive me. I... I need to set myself to rights. I must get sober." "There's no need for apologies, Gee," he said, offering me a small smile. "You're my dearest friend. And yes, getting clean is a fine notion. If that’s your resolve, you shan't go it alone—I’ll stand by you." He reached for my hand, and I gripped it, grateful beyond words. "You're the very best of men," I murmured. "But I fear I cannot linger in London. The thought of Frank, of being in the same city yet unable to be with him—it is more than I can bear." "At least stay 'til Sunday," Ray urged. "You must rest, old boy." I nodded faintly. "Aye, I shall stay a few days more. You're quite right—I need rest." And, truthfully, I wished to savour what time remained with Ray, my one solace in this nightmare. But I also knew I had to return home. There was Pete—perhaps he had some word of Frank. Maybe he could tell me if he was even still alive. A telephone call wouldn’t do. No, this was a matter far too grave to be handled over the wire.
FRANK’S POV
Thursday arrived far swifter than I would have wished. Having no shift at the pub that day only made matters worse—I was left alone with naught but my thoughts. In an effort to silence them, I spent the day at Brendon’s piano, my fingers dancing over the keys, weaving melodies, writing music. It offered me some respite, though only just. "Sir Frank?" The housekeeper’s voice rang from the hall—the same kindly woman who had shown me the bathroom on my first visit. "Sir Urie wishes to speak with you." I hurried to the telephone. "Hello? Brendon?" "Frank," came his voice, smooth as ever, "I wanted to inform you that I shall be detained at work. Some urgent business has arisen. I’ll be home late." "That’s a shame." A lie, of course. "I shall await your return." "Good. I’ll see you at home then." And with that, he rang off. An idea took root in my mind, a reckless glimmer of hope. It was nearing six o’clock. Without delay, I strode to the closet, rifling through my garments. "Blast it—the scent." I froze. If I meant to see Gerard, I could not risk carrying Brendon’s fragrance upon me. An answer came swiftly—I recalled a perfumery not far from the house. If fortune was kind, they would stock the very cologne Gerard favoured. Dressing with care, I descended the stairs, only to be intercepted at the door. "Where might you be headed, young sir?" The housekeeper’s voice, gentle but firm, halted me in my tracks. "The church," I answered. She frowned. "Sir Urie was quite clear in his instructions. You are not to leave the house without him." "Not even to go to church? I was raised a Catholic—faith is an important part of my life." She hesitated but remained resolute. "I am sorry, truly. But if I allow you to leave, I shall most certainly lose my position. And I have children to feed, sir—five of them." My heart plummeted. I could almost stomach whatever punishment Brendon might dole out—but to cost this woman her livelihood? That, I could not bear. A long pause passed before I nodded. "I understand," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. Defeated, I turned back toward the bedroom, the weight of missed fate pressing heavy upon my chest.—-"Good evening, Frank."I heard Brendon’s voice as he entered the room."Evening." I muttered, struggling to force anything more out. My thoughts were elsewhere—clinging to the hope that Gerard was still waiting for me at the church, perhaps with a worried frown. I imagined him pacing, glancing at the door, wondering where I was. I hoped he wasn’t angry, that he somehow understood the reasons behind my absence."You don’t look well," Brendon remarked, his expression serious. "What happened?""What happened?" I thought. "You’ve locked me in this house, stripped me of my freedom, and now you ask me what happened? Fuck you.”Despite the bitterness growing inside me, I kept those word to myself."Nothing really," I mumbled, swallowing the rising lump in my throat. "I was just writing music all day. I’m tired.""You don’t look tired," he retorted, studying me closely. "You look sad. Pensive.""No, it’s just that…" I trailed off, unable to finish my sentence."What are you thinking about, huh? The man you sucked off at the races? Is that it?" His voice was sharp, cutting through my words before they even left my mouth."I didn’t suck anyone off!" I snapped, the lie burning on my tongue."Don’t you dare raise your voice at me," he growled softly, his tone dangerous. "Don’t you fucking dare." He took a step closer and slapped my cheek, the sting sharp and immediate. "You see, something’s off. I’m certain of it.”My mind raced, desperate for a way out of the tension that had thickened the air. God, maybe I’m not that good at pretending after all. I could feel the weight of my emotions pulling at me, but I had to find a way to get through this. Screw it, I’ll have to do something."No," I said quickly, forcing a smile. "Everything’s fine. I was just… thinking it’s my turn to take you out. I was trying to think of somewhere we could go.""Yeah?" Brendon raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with irony. "Well, if you’ve been thinking about it so much, you should have an idea by now, right?"I straightened up and gave him a small, calculated smile. "I do, actually. How about a jazz club on Sunday?"His eyes lit up for a moment. "You’re lucky," he said, the tension momentarily easing. "That’s what I enjoy doing in my spare time." He stepped toward me and kissed me, a kiss full of possessiveness. I shut my eyes, trying to block out the taste of whiskey and the feel of his lips. In my mind, it was Gerard I kissed, Gerard I imagined in this moment, with his touch, his scent, his warmth.But the moment passed quickly, and I was left only with the silence that followed.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
CHAPTER 12 I write sins, not tragedies
FRANK’S POV
On Sunday, I finished my shift earlier than expected. Brendon’s chauffeur was waiting outside, as per usual—unfortunately.“Sir Brendon has instructed me to inform you to change quickly, sir. He’s already waiting for you at the bar. I shall drive you there,” he said, with that stiff formality I’d come to expect.I merely nodded in response. I was utterly exhausted from work, and the thought of going out was the last thing I wanted to entertain. On top of that, I felt a heavy weight of sadness and frustration. My mind kept replaying Thursday evening. The guilt gnawed at me. I knew standing Gerard up wasn’t truly my fault, but the feeling still lingered. What troubled me most, however, was the uncertainty of how he had taken it. Was he sad? Was he angry? It was eating me up inside, not knowing.I quickly changed into a pair of black trousers, a silky shirt, and a matching waistcoat—everything in black, reflecting my mood. I was livid with Brendon. He knew full well I had a shift, and he also knew I always took a bath afterwards. Yet here I was, with no time to even wash away the day’s grime.—-“Welcome back, Frank. The drive shouldn’t take long,” the chauffeur said as I climbed into the car. I didn’t bother replying; I simply stared out the window, my thoughts swirling.As we neared our destination, a sense of panic bubbled up inside me.
Why are we stopping here? By the train station? Where the devil is he taking me?
“The bar’s just across the street, sir,” came the chauffeur’s calming response.I exhaled a sigh of relief. Right then, just a night at the bar, as planned. Nothing to get in a tizz about.The bar was small, intimate, the kind of place where the dim lighting created an almost secretive atmosphere. There were only four tables, each carefully placed in the soft glow of the lights. The counter behind it was stocked with a modest but expensive selection of spirits. In front of the entrance was a stage where the musicians were tuning their instruments, getting ready to set the mood. The whole establishment had the unmistakable art deco style—classy, polished, and effortlessly chic.Brendon was seated at one of the tables by a large window, looking every bit the man he wanted to be. His suit, as always, was a bit too fancy, with silver threads glinting here and there.“Evening, Brendon,” I said, attempting to sound as casual as possible.“Oh, hello, Frank,” he replied, putting down the newspaper he had been engrossed in. “I do apologise, I didn’t see you there. Just reading about the underground alcohol market in New York. The prohibition doesn’t seem to be doing them any favours. More and more people are brewing their own spirits, it seems. I’ve always been opposed to such things, you know. It’s only a matter of time before I get a call about illegal shipments of alcohol from here to America. If I were to lay a wager, I’d say the Shelby’s are already involved, if they aren’t already. You’d be familiar with them, wouldn’t you? They’re from Birmingham, if I recall.”At the mention of the Shelby’s, a sudden wave of anxiety swept over me.“Yes, they are,” I said, taking a seat next to Brendon. “But I’ve never spoken to any of them. I keep my distance from people like that, so I don’t know what they’re up to.”“Good. I wouldn’t expect anything else from you,” he replied, a smug smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Go on, get yourself a drink. It’s on the house.”I made my way to the bar and ordered a rickey—one of my favourite cocktails.“You’ve probably never had a fancy cocktail like that, have you?” Brendon called after me.“No, never,” I lied, flashing him a quick, forced smile.“With me, you could have a life full of things like this—things you never even knew existed.”
Too bad I don’t want a life with you.
“I’m a regular here. It’s a safe space for... people like us. Safe enough for us to hold hands,” Brendon said, his voice dipping into something suggestive. He reached for my hand, and I let him, trying to focus on the sound of the jazz band starting up.The music wrapped around me, soothing my frayed nerves. Music had always been my escape, the one thing that could calm the storm of my emotions. I’d always felt them more deeply than most, and it was like a balm for my restless soul.“Get me another drink, won’t you, darling? A sidecar,” he added, his voice smooth as silk.“Sure. Could I have one of your cigarettes after?” I asked, hoping the smoke would ground me.“Of course.”I stood by the counter, waiting for our drinks, my eyes drifting toward the window. And then my heart stopped cold.
It can’t be. Not again.
There, standing on the pavement, was Gerard, cigarette in hand. I made sure Brendon had gone back to his newspaper, so he wouldn’t catch me staring. My breath caught in my chest. He was so close—just on the other side of the glass—and yet, so far away.I longed to run to him, to throw myself into his arms, but I forced myself to stay put. I watched, willing him to turn around, to see me, but instead, he casually flicked his cigarette to the ground.That’s when I noticed the man standing beside him. Tall, with long, curly hair. My stomach dropped, and an unfamiliar jealousy twisted inside me. Why is he standing so close to Gerard? I wanted to push him away, to take Gerard’s hand and run, but Gerard didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he didn’t even seem bothered by the closeness of the other man.Then, in a flash, my heart shattered. Gerard hugged the curly-haired man. It was brief, but unmistakably a hug. My chest tightened, and the world around me felt like it was collapsing.The two of them pulled away from the embrace and started to cross the street. I watched, unable to tear my eyes away, as they entered the train station together.
So this is it, I thought. He’s already found someone else. Someone better.
It was always the same. People always left. And I was so easy to replace.---“Sir? Your cocktails are ready.”“Oh, right. Thank you.” I collected the glasses and made my way back to Brendon. If Gerard had found someone else, well, I couldn’t let that be my undoing. I wouldn’t allow him to destroy me. It’s his fault I’m in this mess anyway. Why not make use of the situation?I sat down next to Brendon and took his hand without hesitation.“Is it safe to kiss you here?” I whispered, my breath warm against his ear.“That might be a bit too bold, considering we're seated by the window," Brendon replied, his tone smooth, but with a hint of amusement. "Even with my influence, there are some things I’d prefer not to do in public. However…” He stood, keeping hold of my hand. “Come with me.”We moved past the stage and into a narrow corridor with a pair of doors on either side. Brendon produced a key from his pocket and unlocked the door on the left.“You were prepared, I see?” I said, my voice playful.“I always am.”The room was modest, only a bed in the middle, the windows covered with red curtains. He unbuttoned my trousers and pushed me on the bed. Then, he undressed, spat on his hand, stroked his cock, spit serving as lube and wasting no time, took me from behind. It hurt, it always hurt with me, but this time it was different. It was my (not so) sweet revenge. When he was done, he just pulled up his trousers as if nothing happened, and left the room. I followed.
Perhaps now's the time to act.
We reclined by the table, our glasses in hand, smoke curling lazily into the air.
Well then. Now or never.
"Brendon, darling," I said, my voice measured. "Yes, Frank?" "The eve of the new year is fast approaching, and you've been working yourself ragged. I thought perhaps you could use a little rest. I've managed to set aside some savings and secured us aroom at a lovely seaside hotel for a couple of nights. It would break my heart if you were to refuse." "Frank, my dear, New Year's Eve is a busy evening, you know. I ought to be in London." "Please, it's all been paid for already, and I’m sure you’ve someone to look after matters in the city for the night." "I'll ask tomorrow."
Is that all? No “thank you, Frank, what a splendid idea,” nothing?
A surge of frustration boiled up inside me. I was angry with Gerard, angry with Brendon.
Why can’t anyone just appreciate me?
And yet, there was something else. An uneasy feeling in my chest. This time, it was me who couldn’t bear to hear the word "no." Not because I was used to getting my way, but because my very existence—and Gerard’s—might depend on it. As furious as I was, the last thing I wanted was for him to meet his end.
Dammit. I still care for him.
Sleep hardly came that night, my mind racing with thoughts of Gerard, while my heart twisted in the confusion of emotions I harborued for him. —-"Frank?" Brendon’s voice stirred me from the haze. I looked through the windows - it was already morning. Though, truth be told, my sleep had hardly been deep. "Yeah?" "I’ll go with you. I’ll sort things out at the office today."
At least something in this damned life was going my way. I’m saved. We’re saved..
GERARD’S POV
I flicked my cigarette to the ground, watching it smoulder as I fought the knot in my chest. Saying goodbye to Ray was harder than I’d care to admit, but I knew lingering here wouldn’t help matters. “Hey, it’ll all be fine. You’ve made it through worse.” “Maybe you're right. But sometimes, I think the trenches were easier than this.” “Don’t say that. It’s just a different kind of hurt, you know? Or... well, I can't say I know exactly what you're feeling. I can only guess. But what I do know is, this will pass too. Nothing lasts forever—the good or the bad. You’re the toughest person I know, Gee. You’ll make it through.”
Ray is right. I am strong. I’ve been through hell and back, and yet, here I am. I’ll be fine. I don't know when, but I will be.
“Thanks for saying that.” I pulled him into a tight embrace, making sure it had the look of a brotherly gesture. Not that it wasn’t genuine, but I didn’t want any prying eyes catching the wrong idea. We were standing in front of a bar, after all, and someone might be watching from inside. “I’m always here for you,” Ray said, his voice a comfort. I pulled away, a little reluctantly. “I must be going, my train leaves soon.” “I’ll walk you to the station. You’ll be home for Christmas?” “I’ll probably spend it with Mikey, like always.” “Mind if I join you for the holidays?” A wave of happiness washed over me—pure, unadulterated happiness, a rare thing these days. “Of course, you’re always welcome.”—-"Thanks, have a good night." I handed the cabbie his fare, the weight of the coins slipping from my fingers.
Home, sweet home. At last.
I had enjoyed my time with Ray, but there was something about being home that grounded me. Before stepping inside, I took a quick look in the letterbox. When I opened it, I was greeted by a scent I knew all too well. Frank. It was his perfume. I let everything drop in the hall, the only thing I cared about in tha0-t moment being the envelope in my hand. I sank into the couch in the living room and carefully tore it open.
Dear G.,
My heart aches with the weight of our separation. I miss you terribly and hope you feel the same. My very being longs for your touch, and no melody can replace the music of your voice. When this ordeal is done, we shall be together once more. I pray this letter reaches you with my cologne still clinging to the paper.
Yours, always and forever,
Frank
My heart shattered. I glanced at my phone resting on a shelf beside me. Gathering whatever strength I had left, I dialed Mikey. “It’s Gerard,” I said as soon as he picked up. “I’m back in Birmingham. I’m sorry I didn’t call from London. Things have been… hectic.” “Yeah, right. I was worried sick, you bastard.” His words were sharp, but beneath the anger, I could hear the sadness in his voice. “I’m sorry. I’m fine. Please don’t be angry with me.” “I’m just relieved you’re all right. And that you’re back. But I’m guessing that’s not the only reason you’re calling, is it?” He knew me too well. “You’re right. It’s not. I… is Pete... I just wanted to ask…” The words caught in my throat, the anxiety choking me. “Frank’s alive, if that’s what you’re trying to ask. That’s all I know. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to get some sleep.” “Yeah, of course. Sorry for calling so late. And, again, I’m sorry for not reaching out sooner.” “I’ll see you at Christmas. By then, I won’t be mad. Goodnight, brother.” Mikey said before hanging up. I sat there for a moment, feeling the weight of regret press down on me. I hated that I hadn’t called him from London, but every time I meant to, something with Frank would come up, and I was too lost in my own head to make the call. And when I felt strong enough to reach out, I was terrified—terrified that Mikey might know something from Pete that I didn’t want to hear.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
CHAPTER 13
Boys don’t cry
FRANK’S POV
Christmas arrived, and I could feel it in the air. The streets were filled with the sweet scent of cinnamon from every bakery, and everything seemed so serene, like the world was holding its breath. I tried to talk Brendon into letting me spend the holidays with my mother, but he wasn’t having it. He insisted I tell her I’d taken a Christmas trip with my girlfriend. It felt wrong, lying to her, but I knew it was necessary. Once this was over, I’d explain everything. I just hoped that "over" would come sooner rather than later.When I woke up on Christmas morning, Brendon was already up, chatting with the housekeeper in the kitchen. I got dressed, nothing too extravagant, just something elegant enough for the occasion. “Merry Christmas, Frank,” Brendon said when I walked into the room. “Merry Christmas to you. And to you, Miss Nancy.” The housekeeper flashed me a warm smile at my greeting. “Merry Christmas, sir.” “Have you seen the tree?” Brendon set aside his newspaper and looked at me. “Come on, I’ll show you.” He stood and took my hand gently in his. The tree stood grand in the living room, adorned with all manner of expensive decorations. “Here, this is for you.” He handed me a box from beneath the tree. “You didn’t have to. But thank you.” Inside was a small bottle. “Go on, try it.” I sprayed a little on my wrist and inhaled. The scent hit me like a wave. It was Gerard’s cologne. “I happened to know the brand of the perfume I smelled on you at the races. My father used to wear the same scent. I trust you enough now to believe your story about a man wearing it next to you, so I’m not jealous, you see. I thought it would suit you.” “Thank you.” My voice cracked. “Excuse me for a moment, I need a moment.” I rushed into the bathroom, closing the door behind me before collapsing to the floor, tears streaming down. I tried to stifle my sobs, but everything felt too much. I was falling apart. When I finally gathered myself, I washed my face, but my red eyes were a giveaway, betraying my composure. I took a deep breath and pulled myself together. “Forgive me.” Brendon’s gaze was heavy when I stepped out. “It’s just… my father also wore the same cologne. It reminded me of him. He was very dear to me, you see, and I needed a moment. I’m fine.” He didn’t utter a word, his eyes as cold as ice, fixed firmly on me. We sat there in silence through breakfast, and though I forced myself to eat, every bite felt like a chore. My stomach was empty, but my mind was anything but. Finally, the officer spoke, his words slicing through the air like a sharp blade. “I can’t stand crybabies, Frank. You’re a grown man, not some little kid. I know you didn’t see the war, and it’s as clear as day. War makes a man hard, but you? You’re soft. I miss my father too, but I don’t go bawling every time something reminds me of him. You’re a man, regardless of your... preferences. Folks like you are the reason they think we’re weak, not 'man enough.' If I wanted to be with a woman, I’d be with one. So don’t act like one. This is the last time I want to see you shedding tears—and I’m not saying I hope it’s the last, because it sure ain’t my Christmas wish. It’s a damn order. Understood?” His voice was sharp, cutting through the air, and his glare could’ve frozen me in my seat. “Understood.” I muttered, my voice barely a whisper. “Oh? Didn’t catch that, pretty boy.” Brendon sneered, his grin full of disdain. “Say it louder this time, instead of whispering like a bitch.” “Understood.” “Good. Now, since you’ve ruined our breakfast, you’ll be the one to clean up. Nancy, you’re free to go. Enjoy your holidays.” The officer stood abruptly, knocking a full cup of coffee off the table in one swift motion. “Oh, my mistake, Frankie. Didn’t mean to do that.” Then, with the same casual cruelty, he sent a plate, a glass, and a few slices of meat crashing to the floor. “Excuse me now, I’ve got things to see to. You’ve got an hour to make this kitchen sparkle. Merry Christmas, Frank.” The grin remained, wide and awful, as he made his exit. I’d seen my share of messes working at the pub, but this was something else. Still, I got to work, cleaning up the broken glass and spilled coffee, making the kitchen look pristine in under an hour. Not a single tear escaped, though my heart was heavy. I was scared of Brendon—scared he might cancel our trip if he saw the weakness in me. “I am taking away your gift. I thought it would make you happy, but I see you can’t be appreciate what’s being given to you. I’d expect a lower class lad like you to be glad with it but you’re an ungrateful little bitch.” I heard Brendon say when I entered the bedroom. “Let me get my gift now, I deserve it after the terrible morning I had because of you.” He forced himself upon me and I just lay there imagining that my body wasn’t really mine, which help me endure the whole thing. “Only few days and it’s over. You can do it.” I repeated this thought in my head like a mantra.
GERARD’S POV
Ray arrived in Birmingham upon Christmas Eve, and I fetched him from the station. "I'm ever so glad you're here." "And I as well," he replied, donning his warmest smile, which, in an instant, set me at ease. "Make yourself at home, Ray," I said as we arrived at mine. "A fine house you've got." "Right, you've never been here before! Allow me to give you a proper tour." I took Ray about the place. "Here’s your room. You may rest here if you wish, or else join me in preparing food for tomorrow’s breakfast at Mikey’s." "I’ll take a bath first, then come down to lend a hand—if that suits?" "Of course. I shall be in the kitchen." Before Ray descended, I unfolded the letter from Frankie once more.
It shan't be long now, and we shall be together. Soon. Keep the faith, Gerard, keep the faith.
--- "Gee?" My brother’s voice crackled through the telephone. "Pete, are you all right? Have you managed to put the fire out?" he shouted, without ringing off. "Fire? Mikey, are you unharmed? And Pete?" I asked, my words laden with concern. "Aye, we’re quite all right. Only... would it be too great an imposition if we took our Christmas breakfast at yours?" "Good Lord, have you set your kitchen alight?" "Well, not precisely the kitchen. I had envisioned a lovely Christmas Eve with Pete, so I decked out the sitting room with candles—only to knock one over. The tablecloth caught alight, Pete leapt up to fetch something to douse the flames, but in his flurry, he knocked the table over. There was a half-full bottle of whisky atop it, which, predictably, spilt onto the floor and spread the blaze further. We managed to put it out with a blanket and some water to ensure there were no lingering embers… but alas, both the table and the flooring have suffered. The whole place reeks of burning." His voice wavered. "I know you bought me that table, and I know what it cost. I shall replace it myself and repay you, all right? Christ, Gerard, please don’t be cross with me—I never intended to set the place afire." "Mikey, listen. To hell with the table, all right? I couldn’t care less about it. What matters is that you and Pete are safe and whole. Come stay at mine tonight, and we shall sort out the rest later. What do you say?" I strove to sound composed, though within me a tempest brewed. Relief washed over me that they were unharmed, but my mind conjured dark visions—my brother lost to the flames. The very thought terrified me beyond words. "You’re truly not angry?" His voice was steadier now. "That’s a relief. And thank you for your hospitality—I’ll set off shortly and should be with you in two hours at most. I’ll be alone, though; Pete was bound to visit his family this evening in any case. Some change in their… err… operations required discussion." "A cha—" The word caught in my throat. "I’d rather not discuss it over the line. I must go now—see you shortly." With that, he rang off. "Gerard? You all right?" Ray’s voice cut through my thoughts. I replaced the receiver and made my way to the kitchen, where he stood. "There was a fire at Mikey’s. Some damage, but he’s unscathed, thank the Lord. He shall be here soon." --- "Does this mean Frankie shall be free come the new year?" I ventured, after Michael explained that the business was to be concluded far sooner than anticipated. "So it appears. That is, if all proceeds as planned—which, I am assured, it shall. Pete can’t disclose much, but he tells me what little he can, though lacking in particulars." "I needn’t the particulars," I muttered, clearing my throat. A thought echoed in my mind, relentless and unbidden. "How," I hesitated, fearing the answer I already suspected, "how do they know? I mean—how do they receive their intelligence? Does Frank report to anyone?" I knew it an absurd notion, but voicing it lent me false comfort. My gaze flickered between my brother and Ray, who sat beside him on the settee. Ray’s face blanched. Our eyes met—we were thinking the same thing. "Gee, they have their means. The Shelbys—their informants are everywhere." Mikey’s expression was grave. Precisely as I had feared. A waking nightmare.
Nothing to fret over. Breathe in, breathe out. Mikey would have told me had anyone seen me with Frank… wouldn’t he? Still, best to ask.
I fought to steady myself, but the unease took root. I longed for a double. Or two. Or however many would see me slumber without thought.
No. I cannot disappoint Ray. Not after all he has done for me. I shall ask something else first—something whose answer I do not dread quite so much. A moment’s reprieve, at least.
"But you and Pete… they don’t know, do they?" "Pete’s family is the only one they trust. He needn’t worry about anyone trailing him." Mikey offered a small, wry smile. Relief flickered through me—only to be swiftly replaced by renewed dread. There was something else I needed to know. Or did I? Perhaps I needn’t. He would have told me—I’d wager everything on that. "That’s good. That’s good. I shall fetch us more tea, then?" I rose, attempting to dismiss the matter entirely. But the look on Ray’s face gave me pause. If I do not ask now, it shall torment me.
He would have told me. So why am I afraid? I have stared death in the face, survived the trenches, witnessed horrors beyond human comprehension—I shan’t be a bloody coward.
I sat once more, my hands trembling.
I shan’t be a bloody coward.
"There is one more thing—before the tea." My voice was level, though my insides twisted. I met my brother’s gaze with unwavering resolve. "Was I followed in London?" I chose my words carefully, avoiding the mention of the church or the races. Mikey needn’t know of my meeting with Frank. "Not that I am aware of." A wave of tranquillity washed over me. My dearest friend, too, seemed to find some measure of comfort in those words.
Less than a week, and it shall all be over.
“A very merry Christmas to you, Mikey, Ray, Pete. Though I find myself amidst trying times, I am truly grateful to share this moment with you all. Your presence means the world to me.” Once we had all exchanged our well wishes, we took our seats at the dining table and indulged in a rare moment of peace. “I shall fetch the pudding presently. But first, I fancy putting some music on in the parlour. Do join me, if you wish—we might enjoy our chocolate pudding there.” --- With our bellies quite filled from the morning’s fare, we lounged upon the settees, exchanging jests and stories, as if all were perfectly well. A fleeting glimpse of normality. “Gerard, would you mind halting the music? I believe I heard the telephone ring,” Pete remarked. I did as he bid, halting the gramophone’s tune. Indeed, he was correct—someone was calling. Doubtless, someone offering Christmas greetings. “Merry Christmas, my love,” came a familiar voice. “The devil do you want, Bert?” My blood ran hot. “No need for such bitterness, Gee, my dear. Do lighten up. It is spring.” “Spring? You ring me with Christmas tidings—though I rather suspect that is not the true purpose of your call—and proceed to tell me it is spring?” “Quite so, my lovely. The birds are a-chirping, you see. Were it not for Christmas, I should think it were indeed springtime.” I cast my gaze out of the window to behold a world blanketed in a thick layer of snow. “I’ve neither the time nor the patience for your drunken ramblings. Goodbye, Bert,” I said, moving to place the receiver back upon its cradle, but before I could do so, my former lover spoke once more: “Are you not the least bit curious as to what I know?” It concerns Frank. It must. “Out with it, then. I’ve not the leisure to entertain you.” I forced myself to sound untroubled. “As I said, the birds are a-chirping. One would think them silent in winter, but no—they chatter quite loudly. Loud enough for me to hear tell that you were seen in London.” My pulse quickened. “And? I have every right to go where I please. It is no concern of yours,” I replied, striving for indifference, yet my voice wavered. “It would be of no concern were it not for the fact that they saw you with Frankie. In a church. At the races. I had thought you more prudent than that.” A lump formed in my throat. Tears pricked at my eyes. “Just tell me he is safe,” I murmured. “Oh, yes, quite safe indeed. It would appear he has taken rather a liking to the officer, so we have elected not to punish him. As for you—I was certain you would require some time to nurse your broken heart. I quite understand that it is difficult to focus on one’s duties whilst pining for a lost love, so, as a gesture of goodwill, I have arranged for a replacement to take over your classes. You may now take all the time you need to grieve, free of obligation.” I set the receiver down without another word. Relief flooded through me at the knowledge that Frankie was unharmed, yet hearing of him and the officer struck me like a blade to the chest,as well as the fact that Bert had dismissed me from my post at the university. I yearned to return to teaching, believing it might be the one thing to keep me from losing my wits entirely, but that last flicker of hope had now been utterly extinguished. “Was it Bert? What did he want? You look rather unwell, Gee,” Mikey observed upon my return to the parlour. “I’m leaving. I need to get away from here. You’re all welcome to remain as long as you like—I could not care less.” Without awaiting a response, I hurried to my room to pack for my departure. ---
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
CHAPTER 14
Sympathy for the Devil
FRANK’S POV
Christmas had passed, and it was time to return to work. I had grown accustomed to my employment at Three Cheers. Not because I found any particular joy in it, but because it was the only reprieve I had from Brendon. It kept me occupied, allowing me to momentarily push thoughts of Gerard from my mind. And yet, the image of him embracing another man remained seared into my memory. In the aftermath, I had attempted to grow closer to the officer—if only to rid myself of the tormenting thought that my art teacher had moved on whilst I was, for all intents and purposes, alone. My so-called relationship with Brendon was never meant to be more than a business arrangement from my side, and so it was, as I still found myself yearning for the one who had been stolen from me. That became painfully evident when Brendon presented me with a bottle of cologne—the very scent Gerard always wore. When he found me in tears over it, his manner shifted unpredictably. Naught but a business arrangement, eh? Or perchance... something more? Seems somethin’s shifted since that little affair. One moment, he would draw me near, only to then push me away. The more he withdrew, the more I craved his warmth; yet when I had it, all I wished was to flee.And so, the pub became my sanctuary—a place where I could escape the turmoil. Brendon ceased visiting, citing his many duties. He claimed that if he wished to leave for New Year’s Eve with me, he needed to see to his affairs beforehand. I only hoped he would not change his mind—for if he did, I should be utterly lost.
Three days left. Three days, and I shall be free.
I marked the time left till the end of my suffering in my mind, willing it to pass swiftly. But true relief eluded me. The thought of the Shelbys gnawed at me. Tommy’s glacial stare, Arthur’s gun trained upon me. Could I truly trust their word? I was nothing but a pawn in their game. Polly was my only hope. Though Thomas carried the title of leader, it was evident that she held true sway over the family. Perhaps she wielded enough influence to spare my life? As I stood behind the bar, absentmindedly scrubbing a glass, a voice cut through my thoughts like a blade. “A double, with ice.” I turned, my breath catching.
Thomas Shelby.
With trembling hands, I poured the golden liquid over two cubes of ice. “There you are, sir,” I murmured. “Nervous, are you? No need. I’m not going to kill you.” He took a slow sip, his cold gaze never leaving mine. “Not yet, at any rate.” I stiffened. I knew it. Why would he let a weak boy—a queer—live once I was of no further use? I scrambled for words, but none came. Even turning away to resume my duties felt perilous. “Plan’s moving along, is it? Heard you’ve shifted from Cromwell Road.”
They’ve been watching me. What if they saw us?
I swallowed hard. “No, sir. I… I rather liked that house, but Brendon and I…” My throat constricted. “Come 'ere. Sit down.” “But sir… I’m working,” I stammered, my hands clammy, my pulse roaring in my ears. “I don’t make a habit of repeatin’ meself..” The steel in his tone rendered me weightless. My apron slipped from my grasp as I hastened to the seat opposite him. “I know things, Frank. The good and the bad.” At his words, my mind conjured but a single image—Thomas Shelby ending both Gerard and me with just one bullet each. The last time, he had sent another to deliver his message. Now, he had come himself.
This must be it. This must be how I die. Will I spend my final moments trapped with the man who had caged me, claiming it to be love? Will I never find peace with Gerard? Never explain why I had left him waiting at the church?
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, looking away. “I shan’t do it again.” Of course I shan’t. I have but three—perhaps four—days left to live. “If all goes as planned, you may thank Polly for your life. I had not intended to spare you, but she believes you do not deserve the alternative.” I said nothing, refusing to meet his eyes.
Maybe it's not how it ends?
“Look at me, Frank. Where is that fire? The boldness that once had you spitting in Bert’s face?” He was right. I used to be different. Was that fire gone? Had London destroyed me? I feared the answer was yes. Reluctantly, I turned my head to face him. “You’re fortunate. Leaving the house on Cromwell Road empty ought not trouble you, for that, in her eyes, is what has spared you. The fact that you’re residing with Brendon now, she said, demonstrates your loyalty.”
So, there are things of which he remains unaware—such as the truth that I have been compelled to live with the officer.
Fortunate for me, I suppose.
“Thank you,” I replied, this time meeting his gaze, though it was no easy feat, nor did it quell the fear rising within me. “Well then, Frank. I suppose I shall leave you to it. Just remember—your time is running out.” He drained his glass and took his leave. I sank into a chair behind the bar, lost in thought.
I am saved. Hopefully so.
Naturally, I ought to have felt nothing but relief at having been granted a chance to live. And yet, a sickening wave of revulsion washed over me. Yes, I was saved—but at what cost? My survival hinged upon the very thing that repulsed me most. It was my sympathy—peculiar, unwelcome sympathy—for Brendon that had secured my life. Sympathy for the devil, one might say.
GERARD’S POV
“Don’t go searching for me. I’ll be back after the New Year,” I said, preparing to leave. “I know I won’t stop you, but I beg you, Gerard, don’t do anything daft,” Mikey implored, worry etched across his face. “I’ll be fine.” With that, I slammed the door behind me and made my way to the car. --- I hammered on the door again, this time with such force that my knuckles were raw. Then, at last, I heard footsteps approaching. But it wasn’t Bert who answered. Instead, an elderly woman stood in the doorway. “Good afternoon, sir. My apologies, but Sir McCracken didn’t mention he’d be expecting any visitors.” “I need to speak with him. Is he about?” I asked, making an effort to sound polite. “He’s not here, I’m sorry.” “Where is he? It’s urgent.” “I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information. Goodbye, sir.” And with that, the door was swiftly closed in my face.
The Shelbys.
Without another thought, I turned and drove straight to Watery Lane. “Sir Way?” Polly looked at me, clearly a bit surprised by my sudden appearance. “Is Bert here?” I asked. “Come in.” I smirked inwardly—knew it.
That bloody viper’s hiding out here somewhere.
But once I entered, there was no sign of my former lover. It hit me that I hadn’t even a proper notion of what I’d hoped to say to him anyway. The whole idea had been a rash decision, made in a moment of weakness. It didn’t make a lick of sense, truth be told. I felt utterly foolish. “Tea? Whiskey?” she asked. “No… Nothing. I ought to be going.” Truth was, I didn’t even know what I was doing. “You’re anxious, Gerard, I can tell. No need to be. The boys aren’t home. Come, sit,” she gestured to a seat on the couch, “I’ll fix you a drink.” Polly had always seemed a touch kinder than the rest of them. I’d heard whispers that she was the true head of the family, pulling the strings behind closed doors. Yet, she appeared to have a heart. Her smile was warm, almost inviting. And when I looked into her eyes, there was no malice there. I sank into the seat she offered. “Just tea, then. Thank you.” “I haven’t seen you in a church since you were a lad. And yet, I know you’ve been praying to get him back. And God is listening,” she said, setting two cups of tea on a beautiful Victorian coffee table between us. “Huh?” I blinked, not quite understanding what she meant. How could God be listening? And if He was, He certainly didn’t seem to care too much about my wishes. “Many Romani folk believe that if you keep crossing paths with someone, it’s a sign you're meant to be.” “So, you lot know about London, eh?” I asked, more out of habit to keep the conversation going than anything else. I already knew the answer. “I told the boys to leave you be after you came back. I trust you, Gerard. You should trust in God too, for He has a plan for you and Frank. I know it,” she added firmly. I stared at her, disbelief creeping up. “A plan for us? If He’s got one, Frank’s hardly interested, by what I’ve gathered.” Polly turned to me, her calloused hands cupping my face. They were rough, harder than any woman’s hands ought to be, bearing the marks of life’s trials. But that strength only made her more remarkable. “I believe in fate. I’ve seen enough of life to know there are no accidents. Keep the faith,” she said, her voice gentle but unwavering. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. A tear slipped down my cheek. “You’re strong, Gerard. Stronger than most people I know.” We spoke for a while longer, and Polly shared more about the Romani culture. She spoke of their beliefs and superstitions—one of them being that if you dream of someone from your past, you’re likely to meet them soon, and they’ll bring you good fortune. She was so... nice. I found myself forgetting that she was part of the Shelby family.It grew late, and I thanked her for her hospitality. When I was finally alone in my car, I broke down. Her words about fate swirled in my mind. I'd always thought life was just a string of random accidents—some good, some less fortunate. But perhaps Polly was right. Maybe everything wasn’t so senseless. What I knew for certain was that I still needed to get away from Birmingham. I had no clear plan, but as I looked at the map, I decided to head south. A week by the ocean, surrounded by nature, might do me some good. Winter or not, the views would be worth it. I’d been driving for hours when it dawned on me that I’d need to buy some oil if I planned to make it to the coast. As luck would have it, I’d just entered a larger city. I looked at the map—this must be Bristol. I checked my pocket watch. It was midnight. Finding oil at this hour would be nothing short of a miracle, and I was knackered, so I figured I’d better find a place to sleep. Without much thought, I stopped my car by the only pub I could find still open. It was a stone building, well over three hundred years old, I reckoned. The place was bustling with men at every table when I walked in. “What can I do for you?” a barmaid asked as I approached the counter. Her Welsh accent was thick, but her smile was warm, and her blue eyes were framed by blonde hair with a smattering of freckles across her face. “I’m looking for somewhere to stay the night. Any hotels nearby?” “Used to be one, but it’s still closed from the war. We’ve got guest rooms upstairs, though. It’s 1 pound per night. I’ll show you the best one. Unless you fancy a drink first, sir?” I paused. I’d promised Ray, and myself, that I wouldn’t overdo it with the drink. “No, I’m all right.” She told me to pay upfront, so I did, after which she led me to a narrow staircase at the back of the bar and unlocked the middle room of the three doors at the top. “I’ll fetch some sheets for you in a moment,” the girl said with a light chuckle. Just as she was leaving, her hand brushed lightly against my cheek. —- “That’s all, thank you,” I said, trying to keep my tone neutral. The barmaid smiled. “I don’t have to go just yet. The owner’s downstairs. He’ll look after the punters if needs be.” She came closer. “No, really. I’m fine. I’ll ask for you if I need anything,” I insisted. But the blonde didn’t listen. Instead, she took a few more steps forward, standing so close I could feel the warmth of her breath on my face. “Nobody comes here just to sleep.” Smile still on her face, the girl unbuttoned the first two buttons of my shirt. “I mean it,” I said, feeling my heart race. “Please, go back to work.” But she didn’t. She stepped even closer, and that was when I knew I had to make it clear. “I’… I have someone,” I whispered under my breath. At that thought, I felt a wave of sadness wash over me. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. “Sir, this is part of my job too.” I heard her chuckle softly. “Am I not making myself clear enough?” “What are you, a queer?” she snapped, her tone shifting from sweet to sharp mockery. I dug into my pocket and pulled out three quid, handing them to her without another word. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind…” “A fairy, but at least a rich one!” the blonde barmaid chuckled, turning swiftly and leaving the room. A deep sigh of relief escaped my lips as I slumped onto the bed in the corner. It was one of the only three pieces of furniture in the room. Alongside the bed, there was a small desk and a chair. The only light came from two candles burning dimly on the desk. I blew them out gently before lying back down, staring up at the ceiling. I’d hoped that leaving my hometown—leaving London—would offer my weary heart a bit of respite, but it hadn't. The cruel irony was that the only peace I had found since Frank had been taken from me was when I sat with Polly at Watery Lane. Perhaps when I reach the ocean, things will start to settle. That night, sleep eluded me. My mind was tormented by the nightmares of war. I dreamt of Billie—my friend with whom I’d survived the hell of the trenches. The mattress was hard, the room freezing, and I tossed and turned until the first light of morning filtered through the window. I couldn't help but smile to myself. Normally, I despised the sun, but after months of grey skies, it felt like a welcome change. I needed a shower desperately. Grabbing my towel, I made my way to the bathroom, which, as the blonde girl had shown me, was just next door. To my relief, despite the lack of comfort in the room, there was hot water. I let it flow over me, feeling the warmth spread across my skin. As the steam filled the small room, I thought about Billie—who had appeared so vividly in my dream—and about Polly’s words on fate and dreams. Could it really be my destiny to be with Frank? If it were, why was he following the officer’s affection instead? Was it fear, eh? Or maybe — just maybe — ‘cos he loved me. Pulled all this caper to save our skins… reckonin’ we’d find our way back once the whole bloody nightmare blew over? So many contradicting thoughts flooded my mind, I couldn't make sense of any of it. Felt like I was completely adrift. After makin’ a dog’s breakfast of trying to sort it all, I decided I were daft to put any stock in Polly’ prattle — nothing but false hope, that. Took me time, but I saw it straight in the end… me and Frank, we were never meant. Near broke me, it did — but you get used to being on your own. Loneliness… aye, that’s just the way of it for the likes o’ me. Lost in me own head, I felt something brush against my foot. Snapped me out of it, that did. I glanced down.
Bloody hell!
Next thing I know, a cockroach’s crawling up my leg. I damn near jumped outta my skin, flung the filthy thing off, and legged it outta the shower. Seen them a dozen times in the trenches, but that doesn’t mean you ever get used to them — not when they’re clawing up your bare skin I dressed sharp, grabbed me stuff, and fled the pub. Outside, I threw meself in the car and had a look at the map.
Not far now.
The blonde had mentioned a Petrol Depot nearby where I could fill up. Should’ve had the sense to bring some from home, but I was too bloody rushed, too keen to get outta Birmingham and face Bert. Forgot something as basic as that — and it hit me like a punch in the gut. --- “That’ll be 18 shillin’ an’ 15 pence, mate.” The attendant said, his voice thick with that Bristol accent, after filling several bottles with a total of 25 gallons of petrol. I reached into my pocket to pay, but all I found was my ID card — not a single penny left.