Twelve
Title: Twelve
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
Author: mcrnut
P.O.V: Third, Gerard centered
Disclaimer: Not true, never happened.
Summary: When Frank stopped coming to the fence, the bluebirds stopped singing.
A/N: Entry for picturethis_mcr's first contest. It's just a small WW2 snippet thingy.
Berlin, Germany. 1944.
Gerard sat with sun in his eyes, fingers clamped tightly around his sketch book. Some of his hair was tickling his cheek.
He was getting a little numb from sitting on the ground, and just as he thought of getting up and moving around a little, he saw a familiar figure approaching, the sun making the silhouette stand out, plain black. But Gerard knew him, knew the shape of his shoulders and the way he walked.
The bluebirds chuckled from somewhere above Gerard, he heard the light snap of wings in the air, and he scooted closer to the fence, dust swirling up around his trousers. His mother would yell at him later, but his nose almost touched the warm, metallic fence and Frank was right there, pushing the wheelbarrow to the side before falling to his knees.
Frank smiled, moving a hand over his hair carefully, flattening it.
Gerard smiled back, turning the sketch book in his hands a couple of times, ducking his head.
Their eyes met as Frank worked, ripping up the poison oak from the dry ground and dumping it into the wheelbarrow, a layer of sweat on his brow. Gerard mostly sat and watched, opening and closing his sketch book a couple of times. The dark, red binding was rough against his skin, and he pressed the pads of his fingers against it, then watched the white imprint fade away.
The sun hung lower on the sky when Frank started wiping the back of his hand over his forehead, sending glances over at the full barrow.
Gerard watched him watch the bluebirds, how fondness grazed his features as his eyes followed them gliding across the sky so freely. They flew high up, up over rooftops and trees. Fences.
Gerard opened the book in his lap, turning the pages carefully till he got to the last one. He tore it out, one finger following the paper down the page as it ripped. He looked up to catch
Frank's curious stare and rolled it so it could be small enough, then pushed it through the fence.
Frank held out his raw, sore hand and caught the paper as it unrolled on the other side.
Gerard held his breath as Frank examined the drawing, the careful strokes of gray lead stood out across the blinding white page, and Frank barely touched it, letting it rest on his palms as if it was sacred.
He let out a shaky breath and caught Gerard's stare, pushing his hand, as far as it went, into a hole of the iron net.
Curling his fingers around Frank's, Gerard smiled, happiness swelling in his chest.
Frank folded the drawing gently and stuffed it under his shirt, before he had to go back, waving his hand goodbye. When Frank was only a small dot, down by the houses where the others were, Gerard hugged the book to his chest, watching the dark smoke rise from one of the buildings. The one farthest down by a corner in the enormous enclosure, partly hidden in the shadows. Where people went in, and didn't come out.
-
When Frank stopped coming to the fence, the bluebirds stopped singing.
-
London, United Kingdom. 1956.
Gerard's portfolio was digging into his hip and his shoes were making wet noises with every step he took as he was walking down along the sidewalk. The air was clammy and cold; tiny, tiny droplets of water still swirling around, and they clung to his hair and clothes.
He shifted the portfolio on his shoulder, sliding his thumb over the plastic covering his art.
He noticed, before it was too late, that his shoes had come untied, and as he was straightening up after re-doing them, he saw the flick of a weak light out of the corner of his eye. It was the sign above a small bar, and Gerard suddenly felt itchy for something to drink.
He crossed the street with his hands in his pockets, studying the colorful, blinking logo.
Inside, it was warm and damp. A low murmur of voices filled the small space, and Gerard made his way over to the bar, walking in zig-zag between tables.
The Bartender was scrubbing glasses intently with a washcloth, and Gerard had to clear his throat to catch his attention.
When The Bartender turned around, Gerard's fingers froze against the wood of the counter.
It felt like Time had stopped, something was rushing in Gerard's ears and as they stood, both men completely still on each side of the counter, Gerard had to struggle to draw his breath.
He was standing so still, not moving a muscle and his heart was pounding in his chest, in his wrists and on the side of his neck. He leaned more of his weight on the counter, afraid he might lose consciousness if he didn't.
Frank's fingers were shaking as he lifted them, one hand slipping into his chest pocket. He didn't look away from Gerard's eyes as he pulled out a small piece of paper, laying it gently down on the counter. He folded it out, four times, smoothing his hand over it.
Gerard watched the faded lines of the bluebird's puffy chest and proud bow of it's tiny beak. The small details in the feathers stretched along it's wide-spread wings were smudged, but Gerard could still recognize every stroke of pencil he had once made.
Frank's hand was still resting on the paper and Gerard placed his hand next to it. He pushed his fingers under along Frank's palm, feeling the old damages in the skin. His own smile was ringing in every part of his body, from the corners of his mouth down to his toes.
In the distance somewhere, he heard bluebirds sing.