We Can Run, Or We Can Die [Frerard]

One|Be Careful What You Wish For

HELLOOOOOOOOO

I've had a very nice week or so off (idk) and in that time I've been thinking. I looked through all my notes, reread everything that I had (which is a lot), and decided that some things...well, some things need to be resurrected.

I've had this idea knocking around for a while, I first got it before TMIABM, but it kinda took a backseat when that blew up, and y'know, with a bit of tweaking here and there, a bit of plot changes, a bit of disussion with the fantastic HappyChickens and PotatoYoghurt (who made the cover), it could really be something.

So this, this could be my next masterpiece (that sounds really egotistic Ahahahaha ha ha ha oops) - we'll have to see!

But for now, enjoi!

Thanks Pete (still goin'),

-xøcharr <3

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Gerard couldn't remember the last time he could go to a store and pay for something he wanted.

He couldn't remember when people would phone each other, Facebook each other, email each other. He tried to imagine a time where fear wasn't the only thing he could feel, but it was impossible. The twenty-three-year-old couldn't remember a thing before 2014.

He couldn't remember when he wasn't walking, constantly walking, searching for food or shelter or something to get him through the night. He could barely feel the dull ache in his legs anymore. He did not - could not - stop walking. To stop walking would mean risking his life, and after losing everyone else, he didn't want to lose himself.

He was tired of being alone, because he'd been alone for so long and he still wasn't used to it. He didn't want to be used to it. He wanted some sort of company, but company was hard to come by these days, when human beings were few and far between and he didn't see so much as a dog for weeks.

He ran a hand through his hair, greasy and outgrown, his eyes scanning the house he'd walked into. It was deserted - as far as he could tell - and at the end of a small residential street, with its windows boarded up and its front door hanging on a single hinge. He'd propped it up as best as he could, setting a moth-eaten dining chair against it just in case. It was all too easy to be invaded these days.

There was a staircase which he'd end up exploring later, but for now he shuffled into what seemed to be the kitchen, his worn boots making his toes ache and the strap of his bag digging into his shoulder. Perhaps he'd gotten lucky this time, and would be able to stay here for more than one night. Then again, it was getting dark; maybe one night was all he needed.

He dumped his backpack onto the table, wincing as he heard it creak under the sudden weight. He wanted desperately to kick off his boots and let his feet relax, but obviously he couldn't; he had to keep them on all the time, just in case. He crossed the room to the sink, turning the taps and finding...nothing.

"Fuck." He hissed.

Gerard then went to the fridge; his usual procedure was to check the sink in hope of water, and the fridge in hope of food. It didn't really matter right now, because he had a few tins from the store he'd passed on the way, but something that wasn't tinned would be good. He was bored of cold beans and shitty ravioli and whatever else he seemed to find.

The fridge wasn't on, but there were two cans of soda, and, for some reason, a large chocolate cake. Frowning, he reached in and prodded the cake, finding that it was miraculously - he hoped - edible. Well. He scooped some of the icing on his finger and put it to his lips.