The Ghost of Him |WWII Frerard AU|

-45-

"Call."

The sound of chips clattering against the old wooden table rings in my ears, like broken glass trickling to the hard ground below.  The air is thick and hazy with swirling cigar smoke, and it burns in my lungs.  Murmurs of conversations fill the hushed atmosphere of the small tavern, and not once does the volume shift.

From across the table, Dallon grumbles to himself, his lip curling up into a distasteful snarl as he begrudgingly tosses his chips into the pile.  He hides his mouth behind his cards, his unreadable stare examining each and every one of us, almost as if he's trying to read our minds.

Now it's my turn.  I spare a quick glance at the cards in my grasp, my expression perfectly stoic and indecipherable.  I don't have a bad hand, so before anyone has a chance to question me, I toss in my chips.  "I'll call."

"Dammit,"  Brendon hisses.  Rolling his eyes in exasperation, he throws his cards onto the table, rubbing his face and heaving a heavy sigh.  "Fold.  I'm out of chips."

"Sorry, kid."  His hazel gaze glimmering in the dim lighting, Frank's face lights up with an impish smirk as he twiddles the cards in his hands.  "Maybe you'll have better luck in the next round."

"If we play another round,"  Pete chimes in, his brows knitted in concern.  "I've had the worst hand in every single game so far.  I'm gonna run out of smokes if we keep going."

"Well, that sounds like a you problem, Wentz.  A deal's a deal.  You lose, you hand over the smokes.  I don't make the rules."

"But you literally just did."

"All right, whose turn is it now?"

"Mine."  From across the old table, I see the corner of my little brother's mouth twist into a faint smile, a smug glint shining in his eyes.  He glances down at the cards in his hands, and then, he reaches for his pile of chips.  "I'll raise five."

Jon lets out an astonished whistle as the chips clatter into the center pile, echoing through the hazy atmosphere of the room.  "Shit, Gerard, your brother's getting ballsy tonight,"  he remarks with a smirk, swirls of smoke leaking from his mouth as he speaks.  "I like it."

I can't stop a grin from spreading across my face as I spare a glance at Mikey and his complacent gaze.  "Well, it is his birthday,"  I say.  "Maybe the birthday luck is on his side today."

"That, and a few long ass months of waiting around for something to happen,"  Frank adds with a scoff.  "I've been tempted to just shout 'all in' for the past few rounds now.  I'm so fucking bored.  Why can't they just let us go home for a bit if all we're gonna do is sit on our asses?"

"A good question indeed, my friend,"  Pete sighs, tossing five more chips into the pile.  "We'll never understand the reasoning behind Armstrong's actions, will we?"

"Apparently not."  Frank huffs out an aggravated breath as the game plays on around him.  "We haven't done shit since July.  Now look at us.  We're playing poker in an old bar in the middle of nowhere, in September, and we have nothing to do."

"Well, would you rather dive headfirst into a fight with angry Nazis?"  Spencer asks, absentmindedly tapping his cards on the wooden table.  "I think playing poker in a bar is a much better alternative to getting killed."

An uneasy silence falls over the group, almost as suffocating as the cigar smoke in the air.  The other conversations around us are nothing but a dull roar, mingling with the thwacking of darts against dartboards and cue sticks against billiard balls.  In any other circumstance, I'd say the atmosphere is relaxing, like a laid-back night out on the town, but now, each and every noise is another addition to the pounding migraine in my skull.