From a Cabin in the Middle of the Mountains: Part 4
Here we go. I had an unreasonably fun time writing this part, so I hope you like it. :) Yeah idk it's fun to write about Gerard's angsty problems \o/
Late that night, long after Frank had become the self-proclaimed winner of the Scrabble war, long after he’d cuddled into the armchair by the fire and Gerard had retired to his own room, confident that Frank wasn’t going to die or anything while he slept, and still carrying a bit of that content glow that comes from the carefree company of others; sometime during that pitch-black, stone-still time that is someplace between evening and morning, Gerard startled out of his bed with a gasp. He sat frozen, chest heaving, staring with haunted eyes at the corner of the room. He could have sworn he’d seen the glint of glasses, and heard the echo of a cheerful, nasally chuckle…
There were a few faint, raspy coughs from the other room, and then the night was reclaimed by that pitch-black silence.
~
Frank looked out the window and sighed, resting his elbows on the kitchen table. He lazily lifted a hand and stirred his gloppy cereal around in its miniature lake of milk. The blizzard was still going as strong as ever. If there was one thing Frank hated, it was being stuck inside with nothing to do. Gerard, who was munching on an apple with his nose shoved into an old paperback, looked up and smirked.
“You’re not much of a homebody, huh?” Frank shook his head. Gerard sighed and leaned back in his chair.
“Ya know, before you showed up I had literally cleaned the entire fucking house from top to bottom twice due to boredom.” Frank snickered.
“I don’t think I would ever be that desperate,” he said. Gerard raised an eyebrow.
“You would be surprised at the things you end up doing when you’re shut up inside on your own. I used to, like, organize the bookshelf by color and shit. I’m surprised I haven’t totally lost it and started painting weird symbols on the walls or something.” A giggle escaped Frank’s lips and drifted away into the stuffy cabin air. He looked at Gerard questioningly, realizing the significance of the things he’d said. Why did Gerard stay cooped up alone in the cabin? Didn’t he have any family? Friends? He seemed nice enough, nothing like your typical Hollywood-style hermit/outcast/mass-murderer-in-hiding.
“Gerard, why do y-”
Gerard’s expression soured and his hand clenched, accidentally knocking his book off the table. It landed on the wooden floor with a soft thump. “Never mind,” Frank said softly. What the fuck even? He glanced uncomfortably out the window and watched the snow twirl in a frantic, wild tango outside.
“If you want something to do, we can go look around in the attic,” Gerard said after a beat. The words sounded strained, like it was taking him an excessive amount of effort to force them through clenched teeth. “There’s lots of random old shit up there.”
“Sure” Frank said cautiously. Gerard offered a short, twitchy smile and motioned to a staircase outside the kitchen door. Frank followed him up the creaky, boot-scuffed stairs. What the fuck was that all about? Seriously, there were mood swings, and then there were fucking 360 degree turns with squealing tires and black marks left on the pavement. Gerard seemed to have some strange aversion to telling Frank anything even remotely pertaining to himself, something Frank found very odd, considering his own tendency to spout off his life story to anyone willing to listen. They arrived at the top of the staircase and Gerard swung open a door coated with chipping forest-green paint. The attic was a small triangular room composed of low-hanging beams and a couple dusty skylights, and as soon as he stepped inside Frank stopped pondering the quirks of Gerard’s character because-
“Dude! You have a guitar!” Frank fucking loved guitars, OH MY GOD. This one was shoved into the corner of the room in amongst a sea of cardboard and yellowed papers.
“…Yes,” Gerard replied, making a wry face.
“Can I…?” Frank implored, reaching his hand towards the instrument longingly.
“Have at it.” Frank scampered across the room, picking his way through the maze of forgotten relics. “It’s probably whacked out of tune though.”
Picking up the guitar, Frank ran his hand over the strings lightly. “No worries.” He plucked a string and made a face like he was sucking on a lime, then fiddled with the tuners. Gerard sat himself down on one of the boxes and picked up a beaded glass necklace lying on the floor nearby, absently worrying the beads between his fingers.
The guitar was worn but still in pretty good shape. The wood was smooth under Frank’s fingertips, the bite of the metal strings sharp and familiar to his calloused hands. He strummed a couple chords experimentally. A light melody sprung from the instrument, bouncing cheerfully off the walls of the attic. A little rusty, but it would have to do. He launched into an old favorite (the Bouncing Souls were fucking rad), humming the lyrics under his breath. When he strummed the final chords with a dramatic twannggg, Gerard clapped politely.
“Bravo, man,” he grinned. “Wish I was that good. I suck at guitar, tried to play Sweet Home Alabama and couldn’t even pull that off.”
Frank sighed contentedly and gripped the neck of the guitar. His breathing was quite a bit more erratic than he would have liked- simply playing the guitar shouldn’t have taken this much out of him. Frank’s immune system truly was horse shit. But he was pleased regardless. If there was anything that could put him in a good mood, it was music.
Gerard’s grin faded as he regarded Frank with something not unlike kindness.
“You love it, don’t you?” he asked softly. Frank nodded.
“But what about you, Gerard?” he shot back, not wanting to miss this chance to learn even a little bit about the mysterious man. “What do you love?”
Gerard paled and clutched the beaded necklace, making the glass clink between his fingertips. He tilted his head back towards the ceiling, not saying anything. Frank waited patiently for a response. Finally, Gerard looked Frank straight in the eye with the air of having just made an important decision. His brow was furrowed and the corner of his mouth twitched up into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I would take a look at the black chest in the corner,” he said quietly. Frank nodded, and with that Gerard got up and left the attic, closing the door halfway behind him. Frank could hear his footsteps speed up as he stumbled down the creaky stairs. And then he was alone with the guitar and the dusty light of the attic.
He wasn’t quite sure what to make of this. Hell, he wasn’t quite sure what to make of Gerard in general; Gerard with his fire-truck hair and cinnamon oatmeal and apparent fear of talking about himself. A strange guy, to say the least, and Frank had to admit it- he was curious. Frank liked interesting people. He loved that some people were like mysteries wrapped into human-shaped bundles. Enigmas unto themselves. To him, it seemed like Gerard was one of these people.
Leaning the guitar carefully against a stack of wooden crates, he crossed the room and knelt delicately in front of the black chest. The early morning light filtered through the skylights, casting warm shadows over the chest’s worn surface. Frank ran a hand experimentally over the lid and a small cloud of dust took flight, flitting in amongst the weak beams of light. He sat back on his heels, unlatched the chest and lifted the lid.
~
Gerard stumbled down the stairs and into his room, shutting the door with a WOMP and collapsing onto his bed. The squealing bedsprings loudly protested against his weight as he curled up into a ball in the middle of the sheets.
He shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t have told Frank to look in the damn chest, he should have just let it be and changed the subject and not told him anything. Gerard’s life was his. He didn’t share any part of with it with other people; his house, his food, his books were all his. And other things, as well- his thoughts, his doubts, his fears. They were his to dwell on and deal with as he saw fit. But then along came Frank with his stupid fucking face and those big hazel eyes that were so goddamn earnest, acting like he actually gave a shit about Gerard. What about you, Gerard? What do you love? Gerard was fully aware that the contents of that black chest could very well give Frank access to a part of him that he wasn’t sure he wanted revealed.
He clutched one of his pillows to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, desperately fighting the growing urge to sprint back upstairs and slam the lid of the chest shut on Frank’s prying fingers. It was too late now.
Late that night, long after Frank had become the self-proclaimed winner of the Scrabble war, long after he’d cuddled into the armchair by the fire and Gerard had retired to his own room, confident that Frank wasn’t going to die or anything while he slept, and still carrying a bit of that content glow that comes from the carefree company of others; sometime during that pitch-black, stone-still time that is someplace between evening and morning, Gerard startled out of his bed with a gasp. He sat frozen, chest heaving, staring with haunted eyes at the corner of the room. He could have sworn he’d seen the glint of glasses, and heard the echo of a cheerful, nasally chuckle…
There were a few faint, raspy coughs from the other room, and then the night was reclaimed by that pitch-black silence.
~
Frank looked out the window and sighed, resting his elbows on the kitchen table. He lazily lifted a hand and stirred his gloppy cereal around in its miniature lake of milk. The blizzard was still going as strong as ever. If there was one thing Frank hated, it was being stuck inside with nothing to do. Gerard, who was munching on an apple with his nose shoved into an old paperback, looked up and smirked.
“You’re not much of a homebody, huh?” Frank shook his head. Gerard sighed and leaned back in his chair.
“Ya know, before you showed up I had literally cleaned the entire fucking house from top to bottom twice due to boredom.” Frank snickered.
“I don’t think I would ever be that desperate,” he said. Gerard raised an eyebrow.
“You would be surprised at the things you end up doing when you’re shut up inside on your own. I used to, like, organize the bookshelf by color and shit. I’m surprised I haven’t totally lost it and started painting weird symbols on the walls or something.” A giggle escaped Frank’s lips and drifted away into the stuffy cabin air. He looked at Gerard questioningly, realizing the significance of the things he’d said. Why did Gerard stay cooped up alone in the cabin? Didn’t he have any family? Friends? He seemed nice enough, nothing like your typical Hollywood-style hermit/outcast/mass-murderer-in-hiding.
“Gerard, why do y-”
Gerard’s expression soured and his hand clenched, accidentally knocking his book off the table. It landed on the wooden floor with a soft thump. “Never mind,” Frank said softly. What the fuck even? He glanced uncomfortably out the window and watched the snow twirl in a frantic, wild tango outside.
“If you want something to do, we can go look around in the attic,” Gerard said after a beat. The words sounded strained, like it was taking him an excessive amount of effort to force them through clenched teeth. “There’s lots of random old shit up there.”
“Sure” Frank said cautiously. Gerard offered a short, twitchy smile and motioned to a staircase outside the kitchen door. Frank followed him up the creaky, boot-scuffed stairs. What the fuck was that all about? Seriously, there were mood swings, and then there were fucking 360 degree turns with squealing tires and black marks left on the pavement. Gerard seemed to have some strange aversion to telling Frank anything even remotely pertaining to himself, something Frank found very odd, considering his own tendency to spout off his life story to anyone willing to listen. They arrived at the top of the staircase and Gerard swung open a door coated with chipping forest-green paint. The attic was a small triangular room composed of low-hanging beams and a couple dusty skylights, and as soon as he stepped inside Frank stopped pondering the quirks of Gerard’s character because-
“Dude! You have a guitar!” Frank fucking loved guitars, OH MY GOD. This one was shoved into the corner of the room in amongst a sea of cardboard and yellowed papers.
“…Yes,” Gerard replied, making a wry face.
“Can I…?” Frank implored, reaching his hand towards the instrument longingly.
“Have at it.” Frank scampered across the room, picking his way through the maze of forgotten relics. “It’s probably whacked out of tune though.”
Picking up the guitar, Frank ran his hand over the strings lightly. “No worries.” He plucked a string and made a face like he was sucking on a lime, then fiddled with the tuners. Gerard sat himself down on one of the boxes and picked up a beaded glass necklace lying on the floor nearby, absently worrying the beads between his fingers.
The guitar was worn but still in pretty good shape. The wood was smooth under Frank’s fingertips, the bite of the metal strings sharp and familiar to his calloused hands. He strummed a couple chords experimentally. A light melody sprung from the instrument, bouncing cheerfully off the walls of the attic. A little rusty, but it would have to do. He launched into an old favorite (the Bouncing Souls were fucking rad), humming the lyrics under his breath. When he strummed the final chords with a dramatic twannggg, Gerard clapped politely.
“Bravo, man,” he grinned. “Wish I was that good. I suck at guitar, tried to play Sweet Home Alabama and couldn’t even pull that off.”
Frank sighed contentedly and gripped the neck of the guitar. His breathing was quite a bit more erratic than he would have liked- simply playing the guitar shouldn’t have taken this much out of him. Frank’s immune system truly was horse shit. But he was pleased regardless. If there was anything that could put him in a good mood, it was music.
Gerard’s grin faded as he regarded Frank with something not unlike kindness.
“You love it, don’t you?” he asked softly. Frank nodded.
“But what about you, Gerard?” he shot back, not wanting to miss this chance to learn even a little bit about the mysterious man. “What do you love?”
Gerard paled and clutched the beaded necklace, making the glass clink between his fingertips. He tilted his head back towards the ceiling, not saying anything. Frank waited patiently for a response. Finally, Gerard looked Frank straight in the eye with the air of having just made an important decision. His brow was furrowed and the corner of his mouth twitched up into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I would take a look at the black chest in the corner,” he said quietly. Frank nodded, and with that Gerard got up and left the attic, closing the door halfway behind him. Frank could hear his footsteps speed up as he stumbled down the creaky stairs. And then he was alone with the guitar and the dusty light of the attic.
He wasn’t quite sure what to make of this. Hell, he wasn’t quite sure what to make of Gerard in general; Gerard with his fire-truck hair and cinnamon oatmeal and apparent fear of talking about himself. A strange guy, to say the least, and Frank had to admit it- he was curious. Frank liked interesting people. He loved that some people were like mysteries wrapped into human-shaped bundles. Enigmas unto themselves. To him, it seemed like Gerard was one of these people.
Leaning the guitar carefully against a stack of wooden crates, he crossed the room and knelt delicately in front of the black chest. The early morning light filtered through the skylights, casting warm shadows over the chest’s worn surface. Frank ran a hand experimentally over the lid and a small cloud of dust took flight, flitting in amongst the weak beams of light. He sat back on his heels, unlatched the chest and lifted the lid.
~
Gerard stumbled down the stairs and into his room, shutting the door with a WOMP and collapsing onto his bed. The squealing bedsprings loudly protested against his weight as he curled up into a ball in the middle of the sheets.
He shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t have told Frank to look in the damn chest, he should have just let it be and changed the subject and not told him anything. Gerard’s life was his. He didn’t share any part of with it with other people; his house, his food, his books were all his. And other things, as well- his thoughts, his doubts, his fears. They were his to dwell on and deal with as he saw fit. But then along came Frank with his stupid fucking face and those big hazel eyes that were so goddamn earnest, acting like he actually gave a shit about Gerard. What about you, Gerard? What do you love? Gerard was fully aware that the contents of that black chest could very well give Frank access to a part of him that he wasn’t sure he wanted revealed.
He clutched one of his pillows to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, desperately fighting the growing urge to sprint back upstairs and slam the lid of the chest shut on Frank’s prying fingers. It was too late now.