From the Ashes, You Crawl

Chapter Seven

Gerard let the man named Frank down when they were inside. He then turned, pressing his many locks and deadbolts over the door, his breathing shaky. Gerard's skin itched. He had held Iero so closely so Frank could make it home. Had he made a huge mistake? It was too late now. He paused, his head resting against the door, eyes closed, when he heard Frank cough as he weakly looked around the crowded room. Gerard felt like his weapon stockpile probably looked very intimidating, but Frank didn't know a single thing about Gerard.

"Wow," Frank remarked as his body slowly slid to the floor. He was so weak, Gerard noticed as he looked towards him, that he could no longer stand. Iero, or Frank, was very, very pale, Gerard could tell now, and there were cuts along his cheeks and mud was coating much of his gear. Filth. Gerard could not stand filth, but he didn't say anything. "I see why you've stayed alive this long... Colt ACRs....Fully automatic pistols... Damn, even the army doesn't have any of these," He crawled towards one of the piles, and he took a rifle in his hands, looking it over carefully. Frank seemed to admire the weapon before he spoke again, eyes flicking to the man by the door, "Which is your favorite?"

Gerard's heart began to race. He looked away quickly, head jerking towards the floor. "I've never shot a weapon," He answered rockily, hands gripped tight as he stared at the floor. There was a pause from a few feet away where Frank was.

"Never? How are you alive? Luck?" Frank asked, a sense of skepticism in his voice.

"I've never shot a weapon," Gerard replied automatically. He started to grow panicky, hands twitching. A part of his memory was remembering something very, very long ago.... There was blood. There was pain. No... There wasn't any time for Gerard to remember. He would break down if he remembered. He couldn't remember.

Frank seemed to sense that Gerard was getting uncomfortable. Gerard watched from the corner of his eye as Frank stared longingly at the rifle before laying it back on the pile. He stayed on the floor, rubbing his face with his hands. Gerard could see him peeking between his fingers at the stash in the other room, sneaking a glance at all the food.

He wanted Gerard's food.

Gerard did not want to give his food away. He pressed his hand over his bag, feeling the delightful buldge of boxes he had so wonderfully collected today on his own. He had. Not Frank. It was all Gerard. Why did he have to give his food to another person? It was his food.

Just as Gerard figured he would, Frank spoke only a moment later.

"Ge... Gerard, was it? I'm... I just want something to eat, and... Some water please. Please. That's all I ask," He whispered, his voice very hoarse and hollow, but when he turned, he saw Gerard shaking his greasy head.

"No," Gerard answered stiffly, clutching his hand around his bag as he backed himself against the wall, like he thought Frank would attack.

"No?" Frank questioned. The weak man slowly turned towards him completely and hobbled to his feet. He steadied himself on the pile and stared at Gerard, "What? I... I'm starving."

"No," Gerard said again, the only moving part of his body being his jaw. The man studied Frank for a moment, his grip tight over his bag. Frank studied Gerard, his hands twitching with uncertainty and dizziness. It was a very tense moment.

"Gerard," Frank said softly, taking a step forward cautiously, "I'm dying... You have so much-"

Before Frank could finished, Gerard pushed past him, bursting into the next room with his bag, which he dropped to the floor, before limping off to the panel on the wall that moved. He pushed it in, and, before Frank could see where he went, ducked inside and closed it. The familiar smell of mold filled Gerard's quivering nostrils again as he curled up on the ground, sobbing. At first, he tried to stay quiet, worried his loud sobs would make him sound weak, but, eventually, the man gave in and let his chest rattling sobs shake his box.