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Apr. 29th, 2010 | 10:00 pm
Title: The Futurist: Part One
Pairing: Frerard (Frank/Gerard)
Summary: Sometimes the biggest mistakes can lead to amazing things. Even if you've just run someone over.
Word Count: 779 (This is a starting point more than anything, but I didn't wat to call it a prequel because, well, it isn't.)
Authors Note: No beta apart from MSWord, so point out any obvious problems and i'll fix them pronto.
Disclaimer: This isn't real (as far as we know). Please don't sue me, i'm a student and can't afford it.
Warning: Character death
It’s only a problem if you drink on your own, which is why Gerard always went to bars; if you’re surrounded by people you can do whatever you like. He was staring blearily into his glass, focusing on nothing while the guilty self-justifications sloshed around in his brain. He knew he should go home, he should have been back hours ago, but what was he going home to? An empty apartment, a blank sketchpad, and twelve concerned messages from his mother. Gerard heaved a sigh which almost caused him to fall off his seat. It made him laugh, because he had promised he wasn’t going to get this drunk; he enjoyed it, though, the burning feeling of the whiskey and the coolness of the beer. He liked blacking out reality for a little while. Something nudged his feet – the bar tender was obviously trying to make a point, so he got up to leave. Gerard struggled into his jacket, a much more difficult task than he realised so he left it at one sleeve and stumbled to his car. He knew he was in no state to drive but his apartment was only a block away, and besides it was unlikely there would be anyone else on the road at this time of night.
He dropped his keys, picked them up, promptly dropped them again and had to spend a further ten minutes contorting himself to get them back from under the car. By the time Gerard had fumbled his way into the driver’s seat he was almost too sleepy to drive, but he started the car anyway and set off slowly down the street. He dimmed his headlights and began to search for a cigarette, then for the lighter from his jeans. It slipped out of his grasp and into the foot well, and as he leant down to reach it, cigarette in mouth, he felt the car speed up.All he remembered after that was a bright light, a loud noise, and something hitting the car.
Something hitting the car?
Fear almost paralysed him. He didn’t want to sit up. He didn’t want to look.
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and slid out of the car. Gerard stood looking at his bonnet; a smear of blood streaked down it; whatever he hit had snagged itself on the little silver figure on the grill, and it had ripped through its flesh like paper. Realistically, he thought, it has to be a deer or something. They were always wondering around at this time of night, weren’t they?
However, Gerard was pretty sure deer didn’t have fingers.
He could just make them out, crushed under one of the front wheels. A sick, heavy feeling melted through his drunken haze, sinking into his stomach and sobering him up. He walked forward slowly, his eyes fixed on the fingers, the hand, the arm --
He had never seen a dead body before, but he was quite sure living people didn’t bend that way. The arm that was trapped under the car was twisted round, palm up while the body was face down. The legs weren’t twisted, but smashed. Gerard could see bone, splintered and protruding from chunks of muscle. He moved around to kneel in front of the body; he couldn’t see its face. He had to see its face. He couldn’t just keep thinking ‘it’, he felt wrong. As he lifted one of its shoulders, dark red sludge poured out onto the road and over Gerard’s hand, making him fall backwards. From what he could tell the body was male, and the stuff covering his hands had poured out from the deep, lacerated cavity in the body’s chest. The cold, damp tarmac was seeping through the seat of Gerard’s jeans as he just stared; he could see the boy’s face and strong cheekbones marked by bruises, the cuts obliterating the tattoos etched into each arm. One tattoo that remained untouched, much to Gerard’s surprise, was on the boy’s neck – a scorpion, dark and prominent and bizarrely accurate.
Gerard realised he was staring. He couldn’t stop. He didn’t know what to do. Suddenly he realised that someone might be watching; he scrambled to his feet and scanned the houses lining the street. No lights were on, hopefully everyone was asleep, but there was always a chance someone had been woken by the sound of the body bouncing off his bonnet or the swerving lights of the car or Gerard’s uncontrollable whimpers of fear. Without thinking he pulled his jacket over his head, threw himself back into the car and drove away, leaving the body behind.