Absinthe In Colour Purple *frerard*

21. Rebirth

A light breeze ruffled Gerard's hair, as he bent down to grab something off the doormat. The package was neatly wrapped, in a pretty color of purple. At the front it said with a green marker:

Surely you must know, it was all for you.

A familiar jolt ran up his spine. His hand automatically reached through his hair, ruffling it further. He unwrapped it right there, tearing off the pretty paper, revealing a black and white cover of a book. His eyebrows knitted together, "Violent Fever?" He muttered, questioning the universe. Before finally, he saw the letters below. Frank Iero. Bold letters, unmistakable, unambiguous.

His first thought was, that he must be dreaming. Reality shifted far away, swimming in the ocean of disbelief. But it had to be real, he was sure (secretly, he pinched himself).

The storm was erupting in the pit of his stomach. The ground was shaking, his mind flooded by memories. His hair in the early morning, how he smiled at his stupid jokes, the touch of his hands, how it electrified him. He was expecting tears, confusion, blur. But none came.

In fact, it all became clearer.

Before, he had often asked himself a question. Would he ever forgive Frank? Followed by, what will he have to do for Gerard to forgive him?

But instead, a laugh, sweet sound melodic, escaped his throat. He laughed at his own foolishness. Of course, "Of course," he repeated out loud, "I had forgiven him a long time ago." No matter what happened in the world, Gerard knew the reason he couldn't actually move on was simply, that he forgave Frank. It meant he loved Frank more than himself.

Suddenly, his whole body became filled with adrenaline. His feet got a mind of their own, carrying him straight to his room, forgetting the guests, the dinner, life itself.

He sat on the bed, opened it, and saw the inscription. Gerard had no idea what was he supposed to feel. He couldn't word his emotions. But physically? The familiar storm kept growing, but instead of thunder and rain, he felt warmth, spreading from his toes all the way to his mouth, which became hot. He licked his lips, finally focusing on words.

The clock hung on the wall, staring at the spectacle. A boy, sitting there, biting his nails, his pupils blown, his face alert. Like a tiger stalking his prey, he kept turning the pages, his eyebrows furrowing every now and then. The clock kept moving, not really caring about the intrigue of the situation.

The voices from the kitchen began to call him, but Gerard overheard everything. He was so immersed into the writing, into the past, that his senses, other than sight, stopped working.

"Gerard?" Nick knocked, tentatively, stepping in, slowly like a child that's just learned how to walk.

The boy looked up, aware at last of his surroundings, and excused himself, "Oh, I just got that book in the mail..."

"I didn't hear the postman?" Nick raised his eyebrows.

"Oh no, it was just a hunch, I guess," Gerard tried to explain. But got interrupted, "Oh this book? Yeah, Lily told me about it, apparently, the author has a reading in the bookstore nearby."

Gerard blushed furiously, his mind going a million thoughts per second. Nick didn't seem to notice a change in Gerard's demeanor.

"Come, let's not keep your mother waiting."

***

It wasn't like Gerard wanted to go to the reading or signing or promotion or whatever writers had in bookstores. He could blame it on sheer curiosity or nostalgia or whatever hopelessly in love people tell themselves.