Gerard Way

Gerard Way is always careful, especially when it came to his job. Or at least that’s the way things used to be, before you came along.

He told himself he was extra careful around you, but everything he did said otherwise. The glances that lasted a little too long for it to be considered professional — let alone friendly, the careful commentary Mr. Way would leave on your work to improve it for the better, the way he had a rule where his office door remains open whenever you come during his office hours to get some extra help or more feedback on an assignment. It was all unspoken, but the silence spoke louder than any confession ever could.

He told himself he was just being helpful, doing the right thing by taking you under his wing and guiding you in the right direction.

But deep down he knew his intentions had other meaning. Yet, he told himself he had to keep things professional, for your sake and his job’s. He’d never let a student get in the way of his career. Not yet, and certainly not now.

Until the trip to the Met.

Now, it’s the last stretch of the semester, and you’re standing on a crowded sidewalk outside the Met with the rest of the class, the city roaring around you. Gerard counts heads, clipboard tucked under his arm, black coat flapping slightly in the wind. He looks more like an artist than a professor out here — dark hair pulled back, glasses slipping down his nose as he scans the group.

“Remember,” he says, voice raised just enough to carry, “you’re here to engage with the exhibits related to modern symbolism. Take notes. Sketch if you need to. Meet back here at four.”

The class scatters almost immediately, pairs and clumps drifting off toward different wings of the museum like they’d been waiting for permission to escape. Within minutes, the steps are nearly empty.

Except for you.

Gerard notices too late.

He turns, clearly about to follow the others inside, and then stops when he sees you still standing there, hands tucked into your sleeves like you’re bracing against more than the cold. For a moment, neither of you moves.

“Did you... need something?” he asks.

You shrug, a little too casually. “I was going to start with the modern wing. Thought I’d actually... do the assignment.”

Something unreadable crosses his face — relief, maybe, mixed with something more dangerous. He nods. “That’s... responsible of you.”

Inside, the museum swallows the noise of the city. The ceilings stretch high above you, light spilling through tall windows onto marble floors. Your footsteps echo. So do his.

At first, it feels almost normal. He points out a piece and asks what you think of it. You answer. He challenges you. You push back. The conversation flows easily, the way it always does when it’s just the two of you. You move slowly from room to room, standing too close in front of paintings, your shoulders nearly brushing when you both lean in to read the plaques.

“You always notice the sad parts,” he says at one point, studying a fragmented portrait.

“Someone has to,” you reply.

He glances at you then, really looks, like he’s seeing you outside the classroom for the first time. “You notice more than you let on.”

Time stretches strangely in the museum. You don’t see your classmates again. You forget to check your phone. Somewhere between a series of abstract pieces and a quiet hallway lined with surrealist work, you realize it’s just you and him, voices low, steps slowing.

“This wasn’t the plan,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“What?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “I mean... I didn’t expect to spend the whole day with one student.”

There it is. The line. The reminder.

Still, he doesn’t walk away.

You stop in front of a painting full of dark reds and fractured shapes. “Is it bad?”

He hesitates. “It’s... risky.”

Silence settles between you, thick as the air in the gallery. You can feel him beside you without looking, aware of every small movement. The tension that’s been sitting under months of polite conversations and careful distance hums louder here, in a place dedicated to emotion and confession.

Around you, strangers pass by without a second glance. To them, you’re just a student and a professor standing too close to the same piece of art.

But Gerard’s voice drops when he says, “We should probably find the others soon.”

You don’t move right away.

Neither does he.

And for the first time, you wonder if the museum isn’t just where the assignment happens — but where something dangerous finally gets named.

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