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"Gerard, who the fuck is this in your promo pic?" Brian said impatiently—Gerard was being more dreamy and artistic than usual, staring off into corners and smiling at nothing. Worse than a fucking cat, Christ. But he snapped to attention, a hundred percent there when Brian slid the stack of glossy photographs across the desk. The stack of glossy, expensive promotional pictures that now were fucking useless because there was some weirdo grinning midget involved.
"Uh," Gerard said, gone squeaky and huge-eyed. "Man, who the fuck uses real film now a days? Thought everyone went digital now, this is fucking retro." He perked up. "That's actually kind of cool, you know, like a whole different form of art, even—"
They'd be here all day if they continued at this rate, and the AC in the room was on the fritz again, fucking hell. It was goddamned freezing in this room, not that Gerard would notice. Crazy bastard wore three layers of hoodies everywhere he went, black and purple in the August heat, beaming beatifically as though he wasn’t courting heatstroke. He ignored Gerard's digression on factory molding and thumped the air conditioner again. It wheezed asthmatically at him and went on producing the next ice age. Fuck, it wasn't his day.
"Gerard," Brian interrupted finally, slumping back in his chair and covering his face briefly with his hands. "I know art is important, but, see, photographers? They cost money, and you just wasted an entire session, so I'd really, truly, appreciate knowing who the fuck-up in this photo is so I know who to strangle. Besides you."
"Oh," his infuriatingly brilliant graphic novelist said, fidgeting in his seat and avoiding Brian's eyes. "I told you Mikey'd do the photographs for free, or we've got this friend of a friend, Jon Cuervo or something--no, it's Walker, isn't it? Jonny Walker, you're right—anyway, he's supposed to be, like, the second coming of Ansel Adams, and I bet—"
"Gerard, the last time Mikey did your pictures they were all of your fucking toes. And no, look, that's not the question—get the kid to send me an actual portfolio, though—but I want to know who this is." He tapped emphatically on the kid’s beaming black-and-white face in the photo.
There was a long pause.
"The…janitor?" Gerard offered finally.
"The janitor," Brian said blankly. "The janitor has his hand down the back of your pants."
"Oh, I—um, maybe it's a fan? A rabid fan! Or, or—a ninja?" Even Gerard looked disgusted with himself for this, shooting a strange sideways look off into the corner of the room. "A ninja?" he repeated, sounding disbelieving, and Brian could have sworn he muttered 'you wish' under his breath.
"Look, you know what, you wanna have a boyfriend and not tell me about him, fine," Brian said, with what he thought was an admirable level of maturity, and he didn't take the slightest malicious satisfaction at the way Gerard flinched and looked hugely conflicted and guilty. "Whatever, I'm going for a soda. I'll be back in five, so if you could fucking keep your pants on a few minutes, I'd appreciate it."
Fucking weirdo exhibitionist diva liar artists who were clearly keeping goddamned secrets, as though Brian wouldn't sell the damn sun and moon for the kid, even if he did talk to empty rooms and imaginary friends, and coming up on him unawares should have been a fucking occupational hazard with the TMI moments. Shit, maybe the guy in the pics was a prostitute or something.
But he really, truly couldn't imagine Gerard Way, champion of human rights and sex workers, making time with a tiny punk whore, felt shitty for even thinking it. But he couldn't figure out why Gerard just wouldn't tell him. Fuck, he thought, and stood outside the door a moment longer, nursing his coke and thinking wistful thoughts of simpler times, representing cocaine-maddened guitarists and drunken solo singers. He was about to man up and go back in, just tell Gerard to drop the whole thing and bring in the whiskey kid for a photo shoot, when he heard it.
Fucking hell, he thought a little fondly. Kid was talking to himself again, but something made him pause, feeling strangely voyeuristic, and listen a moment longer.
"Your ninja skills fucking suck, okay," Gerard was saying, and Brian knew the pouting expression that went along with that, but what he didn't know was the high pitched giggle that followed. "Ninjas don’t get photographed! Look," Gerard said, in his pissiest voice. "We should just tell him."
"Hey, you wanna scrape the guy off the ceiling, be my fucking guest," a cheerful voice replied, and okay, that was fucking enough.
Brian stormed into the room and stopped dead. "What?" he said, suddenly dumbfounded. It had gotten even colder, somehow. "There was—there was someone here, I heard them."
"Yeah," Gerard said, not meeting his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly with a hand. "Look, don't—don't, like, faint or anything, but. Um. This is Frank."
"What, Frank the imaginary tag-a-long--" Brian trailed off, because somehow he'd missed the kid sitting on the end table by the window, one knee up, his dirty sneaker probably leaving muddy splotches all over his damn files, only—only—he could see the street through the kid's shoulders, see the blinds and the shadows of tall buildings, even the fucking shape of that weird bootcamp sticker Brian'd been idly peeling strips off all summer.
"Hey, Bri," the kid said, and beamed at him. "Fucking love your tattoos, dude."
Brian dropped his coke.