Absinthe In Colour Purple *frerard*

Epilogue

The wind ruffled Gerard's hair, as he opened the window of the lavishly decorated studio apartment. He silently complained about the cold, before going to the mirror. After all those years, he felt peace. It seemed as if life never really passed him by, he could stop running now.

There he was, stubble on his lower face, the dark hair that he finally had cut, but kept long enough to cover partially his face. His hand rested momentarily on the covered belly, memories flooded his mind. It worried him senselessly until a particular guy entered his life.

That summer changed his life. And the entire bedroom reflected his spirit. Colors he kept as a souvenir. Flowers. A wooden old-fashioned desk for his old-fashioned soul. And of course, a space for clothes he was never going to wear. Party days were over. The conventional ones at least. The time for established standards passed.

"Geraaaaard, you'll be late! Would you hurry for once in your life?!"

He groaned and rolled his eyes, great, the bubble of memories was burst and there he was, rushing to his daily life, which of course he loved when he didn't have to hurry.

"Will you stop shouting? You used to wake me up with pancakes, remember? What, now that ten years have gone by, you suddenly don't give a damn?!"

"We have this fight every morning and it could be easily avoided if you'd just hurry!! Don't make this something that's not! You know I care!"

Gerard's blood rushed to his face as he clenched his fists, half-dressed, radiating pure anger, spitting, "I had the loveliest daydream about us and you ruined it!"

Frank dropped his arms and opened his mouth in surprise before closing it again. His posture changed, relaxed, and he slowly stepped to Gerard, who was still sulking. He wrapped his arms around the man and kissed his forehead before whispering, "what kind?" His hand slipped down, lowering towards his crotch. Gerard made a tiny moan. "Will you tell me all about it later?"

Gerard nodded and pulled away, flushed, as if they were still young adults. He got dressed and came out of the bedroom looking composed and professional. "I'm sorry I yelled," he kissed Frank's cheek. The other smiled and caught his arm. He pulled him back and then took Gerard's face into his hands. "I'm sorry too." Frank kissed the top of his nose before Gerard managed to free himself, rushing out.

But as he closed the door, he paused for a second, smiling and pressing his palm onto the chest that was barely caging his racing heart. He cleared his throat and left at last. Frank heard and grinned before heading towards the shower, blowing off some steam.

***

Frank was sitting by the desk, head in his hands, switching between anger, frustration, and sadness. What was writing? How do you define a writer? Is it considered art if the critics say so? 

He was utterly lost in a cloud of confusion for too long. Gerard told him it was only writer's block, that it will pass and he shouldn't stress so much. But Frank couldn't stand that Gerard was the breadmaker of the house, it made him a housewife at best, even though he knew Gerard never looked at it this way.

Three successful books and one that really offered huge commercial success, his magnum opus, of course, Violet Fever. Gerard was more than satisfied with the money Frank brought, but it's been three years and he hadn't even started on a new book. The weight of time kept pressing him, squeezing his brain into existential dread. He felt himself growing old, looking upon the youth. Music lost its spirit, it was all about sex and drugs now. The lyrics kept losing their touch, honesty, everything rock'n'roll was about. And what was up with the new fashion and that English loud out-of-tune guitars?