The Futurist: Part Four
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May. 16th, 2011 | 06:08 pm
Title: The Futurist: Part Four
Pairing: Frerard (Frank/Gerard)
Rating: NC-17 (ish)
Summary: Sometimes the biggest mistakes can lead to amazing things. Even if you've just run someone over.
Word Count: 2,161
Authors Note: No beta apart from MSWord, super long post.
Disclaimer: This isn't real (as far as we know). Please don't sue me, i'm a student and can't afford it.
“Hi!” he grinned. Gerard just stared at him, desperately looking for an edge to a mask that wasn’t there.
“So, uh, have we met before? You just look really familiar, and I thought if I didn’t say ‘hi’ and I did know you, that would be rude, so...“
He doesn’t remember.
HE DOESN’T. REMEMBER.
“Are you okay?” Gerard realised that, in the eyes of his would-be victim, he must be acting strange. He let go of the shelf behind him, trusting his legs to hold him up.
“Y-yeah. Fine. Sorry, you scared me a little,” he forced a grin, “I, uh, thought you were my brother.”
As if on cue, Mikey surfaced from the basement room. He blinked into the light, and turned quizzically to Gerard’s new friend.
“Hey, aren’t you friends with Hambone?” Mikey had been learning to play bass guitar, and practically worshipped this Hambone guy. All Gerard had listened to, was that his real name was John. “You’re Frank, right?”
“We’re in a band together.” Frank nodded, “playing tonight, actually, just a small party thing at John’s house. You should come.”
Frank was looking at Gerard, directing that last statement to him. But why? Did he know? He knew this could all be a trick, some clever lure to get him in a room for... vengeance.
No more watching The Godfather.
He realised Frank was staring at him, waiting for an answer. Gerard’s throat felt dry and he forgot how to talk.
“Sure, we’ll be there!” Mikey answered for him.
“Awesome. Bring anything you want – snacks, alcohol, CDs, everyone will be too drunk to notice if you’ve got crappy taste in music.” Frank ran a hand through his hair, brushing over the scorpion tattoo crawling up his neck.
It was unmistakeable. It had to be him! This was definitely the body he’d seen sprawled across the tarmac, the dead body that haunted him in every moment of sleep. Maybe he was still dreaming. Gerard’s eyes burned into the tattoo for the rest of the conversation, until Mikey dragged him towards the checkout. Apparently, they were going to the party.
It was easy for Mikey to get dressed up; he only had to change his shirt, while Gerard had to carefully construct an outfit. An outfit that said ‘I definitely have never run anyone over, especially not you’. He dug through his wardrobe, searching for something party-able, maybe attractive, and above all clean. He hadn’t done any laundry in over a month, not a damn thing clean...
Except the stuff Mikey cleaned for him.
The shirt glared up at him from a bin liner in the bottom of the wardrobe, shining clean like a blood diamond. He debated how appropriate it would be to wear the same shirt to support a guy that you’d previously murdered him in. It was a good shirt, some faded grey Iggy Pop shirt he’d picked up years ago, and it was perfect. He picked it up and delicately manoeuvred it over his head, and he stood in front of the mirror.
Could he do it? Could he actually drive to his murder victim’s gig, wearing the shirt that was previously covered in his blood, in the car he hit him with?
The morbid, seductive curiosity was too much; his hands were stroking the material, making his skin buzz underneath. It felt wrong, but it was thrilling, a thrill he hadn’t felt in a long while. Gerard considered how much time he had before Mikey would come bursting in.
He wore the shirt under a grimy tartan button-up; it made him look a bit like a punk lumberjack. He knew the shirt was there, hidden like a secret. He quickly drew on some eyeliner, trying not to be too neat about it – they were already running late and Mikey had just thrown the car keys at his head.
It took Gerard a while to get in the car. He stood in front of the door, jingling the keys until Mikey took them off him and got in the driver’s seat. Relieved, he got in and let his brother drive while his fingers toyed with the curling hem of the grey shirt, peeking out from under the tartan.
Mikey had remembered Frank’s suggestion about bringing alcohol, and made Gerard go buy it (“I look like a child, and you’re the expert”). They arrived at John’s house, only to find cars everywhere, so they had to carry their small brewery up the street. Gerard got more anxious with each step, but he was almost excited. This could either go incredibly well, or incredibly wrong, he didn’t really care which any more.
The door was already wide open, so they shuffled in past the small groups of gathered drinkers. Most of them were gathered in front of what was passing for the stage – some crates, with all of the band’s equipment balanced on them. Mikey ushered Gerard towards the designated drinks table, urging him to hurry up and put the bottles down so they could get a good place to watch the band. Gerard was on edge, constantly checking the room like he was expecting police to jump out from behind a sofa and arrest him.
Mikey grabbed his arm, making him spill his drink; the band was making its way towards the makeshift stage.
“Why are you being such a girl?” Gerard hissed.
“Because they’re awesome! Seriously, you’ll see!” Mikey bounced on his heels with excitement. Frank was standing with his guitar, looking out into the small crowd. His gaze drifted, until it settled on Gerard and Mikey standing against the wall. He waved, and Mikey waved back like he was drowning at sea. Fran wobbled across the crates until he was in yelling distance of the brothers. Gerard could see his lips moving, but couldn’t hear him, so he shrugged awkwardly and waved a hand at his ear. Frank nodded, and moved back over to the mic.
“Hey,” the mic reverbed, making everyone wince, “I’m Frank, and we are Pencey Prep.”
A group of girls standing right in front of the stage screamed; Frank nodded, stepped back, and started to play. The noise was immense, and one of the guys managed to put their foot right through a stage crate, but they weren’t too bad. Gerard lost interest as soon as it became clear no-one was going to accuse him of anything; it was the addict in him – if there’s no available rush, find something else to get it.
He wandered up the now empty stairs, checking each of the rooms for something to do. He could hear retching in the bathroom, someone already too drunk to live. There were a group of people getting high in the bedroom, but he knew if he joined them it would make the potential zombie situation even worse. He pushed a door open to find a couple groping furiously on a bed; they hadn’t noticed him, and he lingered a little.
It had been a while.
Gerard felt instantly gross, and moved away. The only other room appeared to be purely for games systems. Heaven. He slumped onto the couch, and began rooting through piles to find something to do; next to the couch was a rucksack, and there was the corner of a book peeking out of it. He pulled it out, and began to leaf through.
It was some philosophy book, Barthes, analysing the greater meanings of pop culture. He settled back, flicking to a passage on striptease. While interesting, it wasn’t entirely what he hoped.
The music had changed without him realising it. He looked up to see Frank in the hallway, chatting with a girl. She was clearly flirting with him, and he was being all flirty back; from Gerard’s point of view, it just looked sleazy. She ran a hand across his chest and walked away, making Frank raise an eyebrow, then he turned and saw his voyeur.
Gerard quickly turned back to the book, aware that Frank had seen him and was probably walking over now.
“Really? We’re that fucking bad you had to read in a dark room alone?” Frank smirked, sprawling himself on the couch next to Gerard. He tossed the book down on to the floor, straightening up nervously.
“No, I just don’t like crowds. Or noise. Or dancing.”
“You know you’re at a party, right?” Frank giggled. Literally giggled. Gerard found it bizarre, and must have made a face. “Oh, I wasn’t judging, at least we can hang out properly up here.”
There was a pause while Gerard desperately tried to think of something to say that didn’t involve asking Frank why he wasn’t dead.
“That girl, she was pretty interested in you. Most of them were. I bet you get that all the time, being in a band and all.” He sounded like his brother, his nerves transmitting as infatuation.
“Oh you’d be surprised, most of them are just nasty. They aren’t really my type.” Frank made a strange tilting gesture with his head indicating something wordless, but Gerard just stared at him equally blank.
“What about you?”
“I’m not in a band, I don’t get many women touching me inappropriately. Or at all, really,” Gerard sighed. “It’s for the best.”
Frank nodded, apparently impressed by his answer. They continued to talk, relaxed in the post-meeting atmosphere. It turned out that the bag, and thus the book, belonged to Frank; he was staying with John because he was looking for somewhere to live.
The entire time, the image of that night was buzzing in Gerard’s head. Every word made the memory of the twisted body on the tarmac more fantastical; maybe it didn’t happen, he was just super drunk and his mind had thrown a face he’d seen in passing down in front of him as a grim warning. He was going to need a drink to cope with this.
“Do you smoke?” Frank already had a cigarette in his mouth and was patting down his pockets.
“Great, but we’ll have to go outside, Ham gets all ratty about staining the walls. Bullshit.”
They weaved down the stairs and through the groups of mingling, drunk party goers, and found some lawn chairs. Frank lit up and offered his pack of cigarettes to Gerard, who declined knowing Mikey would only complain about the smell in the car.
However Frank put a hand on his arm first.
“Look, I wanted to ask you something.”
An excited chill ran down Gerard’s spine; this must be it.
“I really need to go!’’ Gerard turned, wrenching his arm away in sudden panic. Frank looked bewildered, but Gerard didn’t notice as he threw himself down the stairs. He didn’t have time to search for Mikey.
He had to get out.
The walls were closing in.
He was running now, his heart pounding in his ears, his throat slimy with drool, the streetlights blurred in the corners of his eyes as the police ran at him from the bushes and ohgodohgodohgod—
Gerard slammed into the side of his car, and promptly threw up next to the back wheel. He stayed there, head between his knees, riding out the end of the panic attack. He could taste the horrible stomach acid tang on his teeth, while his muscles ached with lack of oxygen. How stupid, he must have looked like a madman running out of there.
“Gee?” He jumped, then realised the voice belong to Mikey. Not the police, not the zombie, just Mikey. Sweet, stupid Mikey. He was standing back a bit, visibly wary but concerned; Gerard vaguely remembered this look, hovering over him whenever he rolled home drunk. Gerard wobbled to a standing up position, then steadily crumpled himself into the front passenger seat and closed his eyes.
Everything was quiet for a while, giving Gerard time to realign the world in his head. He was calmer, far away from all the people. Eventually he sat up, patting his pockets down for cigarettes absentmindedly.
“Frank has your lighter,” Mikey said in a moment of sibling familiarity, “he gave me his phone number.”
“Fair trade.” Gerard mumbled. He frowned. “Why?”
“He said you should call him.”
More frowning. He was almost impressed; it was a good lighter, so he knew Gerard would come back for it.