Parenting Lessons (Frerard One-Shot)

GERARD’S POV

Axel, like me, likes to draw. I raised him with Frank, and, because of me, he was raised surrounded by crayons, paints, markers and coloring books. I’ve always been so proud of our artist of a son. He’ll draw anything. The only problem is…he draws it anywhere and everywhere. I’ve caught him drawing on the kitchen table, the walls in the hallways, and he’s even written “YEAH TOAST!” on the toaster. Our five year old son has been drawing more and more since he finished his most recent coloring book, and he’s been itching to find some sort of new surface to draw on. The drawings on the walls and tables and other household objects have become more frequent.

Today, Axel was being quieter than usual. Usually, when I was at work- drawing in my office-  I’d hear him rolling his trucks around, singing to himself, or crumpling pages he’s drawn on. Today, the house is deathly still. The silence is almost suspicious.

“Child!”

There is no response to my call.

“Spawn?!”

I call again.

“Axel?! Are you breathing?! Where’s daddy?!”

No answer.

“Frank? Babe? Are you home? Can you check the child?”

Nothing.

“AXEL?!”

I stand up from my chair after there is no response and bolt out of my office.

“Axel?”

All I hear is the quietness and I knew something is up.

“Axel, Where are you?”

“In here, daddy,” I hear his small voice calling from the room where we keep all Frank’s guitars and the keyboard.

“Axel wh-” I stop talking in shock at what I see what Axel is doing. He is holding Frank’s guitar, Bela, in his lap and is coloring on her with my permanent markers. “What are you doing?!” I run over to him and take Bela off his lap to look at the damage.

“I wanted to decorate it,” he said, staring into my wide eyes and paler-than-my-usual-pale face. I force a sincere smile on my face, even though I am angry with him.

“Baby, uh… it’s cool,” I said nervously, trying to comfort him. “What’s daddy going to say?”

“I want to surprise daddy with it.”

“Oh, he’ll be surprised,” I whisper to myself.

“Honey, I’m home,” I hear Frank sing from the front doorway.